


Waiting for the Sky to Fall

by kathalcyon, shihadchick



Series: Slayerverse [2]
Category: Empires, Hey Monday, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-23
Updated: 2009-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 14:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 67,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathalcyon/pseuds/kathalcyon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shihadchick/pseuds/shihadchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out that happily ever after really only is something that happens in fairy tales, and life as a vampire slayer is certainly not one of those.</p><p>Three months after realising the dude of his dreams is in fact interested, Spencer Smith is finding that there's more to a relationship than smooth sailing and late night makeouts in cemeteries. With a strange pack of werewolves in town, cracks appearing in Brendon, Ryan and Jon's relationship, and a series of mysterious murders out in the desert, it seems like something is rotten in the state of Nevada. The spate of robberies and violence following My Chemical Romance on their summer festival tour is just another complication for the Scoobies at the Disco, something that doesn't seem nearly as important until two of their number vanish without a trace on the eve of the Vegas tour date.</p><p>These eight days are going to be one of the longest weeks of Spencer Smith's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The greatest of thanks to our marvellous betas, Elucreh and Nova33, who did yeoman's work to impose order on our chaos. If there's a slip-up anywhere, it's through no fault of theirs. Title from Bruce Cockburn's Lovers in a Dangerous Time.
> 
> **Caveat:** It should be noted that canon has been tweaked in this story, largely to account for several (large) groups of people whose bands either have not formed yet in this chronology or whose bands are, for the purposes of plot, unlikely to form in their current real world incarnations. A couple of characters have been aged down for similar reasons, and Warped Tour has been replaced by a similar (fictional) event called Trickfest.

* * *  
Saturday  
* * *  
_12.01am_

"Hey, no- it went _that_ way, behind the trees, guys, come on."

Following that pronouncement there's a series of thumping crashes indicative of several bodies racing through the bushes and vague excuse for brush that circles the cemetery, and a couple more shouted words drift back; nothing terribly meaningful or urgent-sounding.

"Guess it was just kids playing around or something," Al says with a shrug, eyes low to the ground, searching carefully for any hint of what they've been looking for.

"Didn't sound like it at first," Tom says, a few paces off to the right, and runs his fingers over the engraved letters of the tombstone he's standing by, head cocked thoughtfully to one side. "I don't know, I just- I think we're missing something here."

"Or you're just not sure whether you'd rather walk into someone trying to get lucky and laugh at them, or if you'd like to run into a vampire that missed the little buffet serving that just left," Sean says from the other side of Al, humming distractedly and watching the roofs of the crypts rather than where he's actually walking, and only just saving himself from tripping on an upraised slab of concrete.

"You just want to get your teeth into _something_," Tom mocks, "don't start projecting, dude."

"I'll get my teeth into _you_," Sean threatens, scrunching up his face in a mock-grimace and crooking his fingers into claws to wave at Tom.

"Wow, yes, you're terrifying creatures of the night," Max says, "but I think Ryan's found something over there, so can we maybe focus?"

The wind whipping through the cypresses around the boundary is the only sound for a few seconds, casting broken shadows under the sliver of moon high in the sky, and five dark figures lope off towards the other end of the graveyard.

* * *  
_12.02am_

"I can't believe Spencer had to get that one," Brendon says, hands on his hips.

Jon grins up at him, wholly unapologetic.

"I can't believe you're trying to make Jon play _fetch_," Ryan says loftily from his vantage point leaning against the side of Brendon's van, flipping through his book as if he's actually trying to read it rather than fondly watching Brendon and Jon horse around.

"Hey, he went after the first three," Brendon says with a shrug, and runs his hand over Jon's head, rubbing his thumb just behind his ear in the place that makes Jon stretch and wriggle appreciatively. It's disconcertingly puppyish, which would be odd enough if he was just a wolf; from a guy who just happens to spend occasional chunks of time wolf-shaped it's somehow even weirder. Brendon doesn't seem to notice those things any more, Ryan's still dealing with the occasional bout of cognitive dissonance.

"You do get he's not an actual dog, right?" Spencer says, and Ryan can tell he's being provoking and not actually serious, but Brendon acts as if he's not well aware of the same thing, his hand stilling on Jon's head as he makes a shocked face and pretends to snatch his hand back. Jon's tail still waves cheerfully, tracing broad arcs in the dirt, and he's clearly still on alert anyway.

"He doesn't mind, though," Brendon goes on thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the ground around them for a suitable stick to throw (or vampires, or other monsters; whatever, he's on the hunt) "and it's not like any of us are threatening to get him a flea collar for his birthday."

Jon's unimpressed growl is all wolf, and Ryan can't help snickering any more than the other three can.

"He's probably just bored," Bob says over his shoulder, back to them as he scans the road and the completely silent and non-threatening night. "It has been fucking de- quiet around here lately, you guys could probably take off it you'd like, really. Spence and I can cover the rest of patrol, I don't think we're likely to run into anything too big." There've been barely any vamps lately, and nothing bigger than that – just some run-of-the-mill crime, robberies and assaults and a serial killer they're leaving for the cops to deal with.

"I object to your claim that Jon Walker is only playing with me out of boredom," Brendon says, and Bob raises an eyebrow. "Which isn't to say that heading home early would be bad!" he adds, hurriedly.

Jon paws at the back door of the car, an unmistakeable signal that people who've still got opposable thumbs and pants on need to help him out, and Ryan leans over to pull the door open for him, attention still half on his notebook and half on Brendon who's trying to persuade Bob to give him a piggyback ride.

The wind picks up a little more and Ryan huddles back into his coat, suppressing a shudder. Summer's definitely almost over, the nights getting longer and colder. In defiance of the temperature drop, Jon's still wearing his flip-flops everywhere, and he bounces out the door again dressed in them (and jeans, and a t-shirt that's faded into illegibility), knocking shoulders with Ryan.

"What's up?" he asks, yawning a little, stretching out his jaw as if he's almost forgotten how to use it properly.

"Same old, same old," Ryan says, leaning back into Jon. He's definitely not going to complain about an early night. College is starting in, like, two days, and he's not exactly feeling prepared. Plus, more time with Jon and Brendon. Never a bad thing.

"How did he get you to play fetch?" Ryan asks quietly, genuinely curious.

"You don't think I indulged him out of the kindness of my heart?" Jon replies with a tiny smile. Ryan is not buying that. Or, rather, he is, but Jon's expression says he doesn't want him to think that's the whole reason.

"Was it his debonair charm?" Ryan suggests, and they both look over at Brendon, who catches the look and shoots them a brilliant smile. Ryan grins helplessly back, doesn't even need to look to know Jon's doing the same.

"Actually, he offered me lewd and exciting sex acts," Jon deadpans, and Ryan snorts and is about to ask for details when the wind picks up again, sending flurries of dust and the few early leaves that've fallen already flying, and Jon goes tense and completely rigid against him.

Ryan's hand is on the stake Spencer insists he carry before he's even realised he's moving. "What is it?" he hisses. Spencer is still scanning the cemetery grounds half-heartedly through the gate, but Ryan's pretty sure more of his attention is on the conversation he's having with Bob. None of them have noticed anything, and Ryan's about to- yell, or wave, or something when Jon relaxes again, and just looks perturbed.

"What was that?" Bob asks, looking concerned.

Jon frowns.

"I don't- I'm not sure. I thought I heard something, but- it's ridiculous, there's nothing there." He edges towards the gates, anyway, and Ryan follows, raising an eyebrow at Spencer, who joins them smoothly. The group of them peer back into the dark, the area they'd just patrolled through. Nothing is moving but the wind and a few stray pieces of foliage, the only noise the insects and the traffic out on the main street.

"There's nothing there," Jon repeats, shaking his head as if to rid it of the notion, and Ryan doesn't disbelieve him; not Jon's senses as well as Spencer's. But he kind of has to wonder what _was_ there.

* * *  
_3.37am_

"Okay, yeah, so letting the others go home early wasn't a bad idea after all."

"It was your idea, Bob," Spencer points out logically, and tries to defuse the hint of told-you-so-ness in his tone by shifting a half-inch closer. It's not like he's not already kind of snuggled up to Bob anyway.

"My ideas are not always good," Bob says, somewhat ruefully, and Spencer really hopes he's not actually referring to the way that his other hand is pretty much on Spencer's ass right now, because in Spencer's mind, that is actually a _great_ idea.

"Does that mean we can go home, then?" Spencer asks hopefully, because. Well. Bob's hand is on his ass, it's kind of safe to say his mind is not exactly on _slaying_ right now, and he's kind of hoping Bob's isn't, either. "It has been pretty quiet, I don't think we've even seen more than one or two vamps this week and we've hit the usual spots already."

Spencer's well aware he's kind of... wheedling. Maybe whining. But it's really not that warm, and he's kind of bored, and Bob won't make out with him when they're on patrol, even if it is only the two of them. ("You have no idea how embarrassing it would be to get killed because we were busy sucking face," Bob had said once, "I'd, like, never live it down." "You'd be dead," Spencer had pointed out a little ghoulishly, and Bob had just muttered, "Yeah, and my mother would make sure to get me raised from the dead so she could yell at me and kill me again herself afterwards, so no. Learn a little patience." And then he'd patted Spencer's hip consolingly and Spencer had gotten kind of distracted, and then they had gotten jumped by three vamps on the hunt for a little easy dinner so it wasn't like Bob hadn't made his point. Still, though.)

"Um," and Bob is clearly wavering, looking around the badly-lit street they're lurking on, a tangle of alleys well behind the Strip where all the lowlifes seem to wash up eventually, as well as the poor suckers who're just down on their luck enough to not be missed and wind up as dinner. When Spencer isn't there to do something about it, at least. But Bob's been watching the papers and the guy he knows at the morgue hasn't picked up on anything in a good week and a half now that seems like it's something they should be paying attention to. Spencer thinks it's like the vampires and demons and other assorted forces of darkness have all decided to head south for the winter, although when he had said that to Bob, Bob just looked thoughtful and as if he was making a mental note to check the obituaries in Florida.

Spencer nuzzles against Bob's shoulder -- one thing that them hooking up had been really good for was that they could blend in a lot better in some of the seedier parts of town, now; two guys wrapped around each other and pressed up against a wall drew a lot less attention in those kinds of places than two guys walking around with five feet between them at all times -- and widens his eyes. It works for Brendon, like, all the time, it should totally work for him too.

"I'm not falling for that, jeez," Bob snorts, but his fingers curl possessively around Spencer's hip and his other hand is still on his ass and doesn't look like moving any time soon, and, "So we're done patrolling, now?" Spencer asks quietly, and Bob tips his head back to look up at the stars, the sliver of moon, and then back down again to look at Spencer, laughing, "Okay, yes, we're done, happy?" and smiles against Spencer's mouth as he lifts his head up for a kiss.

That goes on for a little while, and it's pretty nice, even given the none-too-salubrious surroundings, and when a guy walking past wolf-whistles and shouts a filthy suggestion for what else they could do, Bob just frees one hand to flip him off and keeps on kissing Spencer (although Spencer does notice that Bob's eyes are open, and he's watching as the guy keeps walking, just in case).

"We should get going," Bob says with regret, not too much later, and pushes gently away from the wall. Spencer backs off easily enough, but he feels his stomach twist a little when Bob reaches out and squeezes his hand gently, once, before letting go again. He can feel his cheeks are a little pink, because, okay, holding hands, whatever, it's not like they're five year olds crossing the road or anything, but it would be kind of... nice. He takes a quick look through his eyelashes over at Bob, and Bob's not looking back at him either, just chewing on his lip and playing with the keys in his pocket. For Bob, that's as good as a two storey neon billboard announcing the arrival of the "kind of nervous and not sure he should've just done that" tour, and Spencer bites back a completely dorky smile of his own and just bumps his shoulder against Bob's as they walk back towards the car.

* * *  
_3.58am_

"Want me to drop you home? Or were you meant to be at Ryan's or Brendon's?" Bob asks, keys in the ignition and car idling before they pull out of their parking spot. Spencer's not entirely sure how Bob's never once had the car broken into, given the shitty places they've had to leave it, and the fact that sometimes they don't even have time to lock the doors. He hasn't asked, but he kind of suspects some kind of witchcraft. Obvious exceptions aside, Spencer's pretty okay with that.

"It's Saturday morning," Spencer says slowly, because, yeah, he doesn't want to go home yet. Maybe it's kind of sad, but he's going to have to be at school five days a week, and at home for dinner, and on the weekends he'll basically be stuck trying to catch up on sleep and also not flunk out of his senior year, and half the time he sees his friends -- let alone his, well, let alone Bob -- he's working, so... he's inclined to be a little irresponsible right now.

"And...?" Bob trails off, but he puts the car into gear anyway, so Spencer doesn't think he's going to have to fight too hard for it tonight.

"And I don't have to do anything later today, so I was thinking maybe we could go back to your place and fool around?" Spencer slouches down in the front seat as best he can, and licks his lips, watching Bob pretend like he's not trying to keep his eyes on the road and off Spencer.

"What if I have something I should be doing?" Bob asks, testing, but he's taking the freeway with the best exit for his place and not Spencer's, so Spencer's pretty damn sure that counts as mission accomplished.

"I'd say that something better be me," Spencer replies, quick as a flash, and Bob snorts and then tries to cover it, just shaking his head.

"I'm just glad you're didn't use that opportunity for a 'your mom' joke," Bob admits, and then flicks Spencer's knee chastisingly anyway, "but seriously, classy, Smith, very classy."

"Oh, like you're any better," Spencer points out, with a vivid memory of the trash-talking during the last GTA tournament they'd wound up having at Bob's place; he'd known Bob was still kind of trying to behave himself around them all, but if that was the kind of language Bob had learned growing up as a Watcher-to-be, then probably it was good that Spencer hadn't been informed of his own destiny until just lately. His mom would totally wash his mouth out with soap even now if she ever heard him say some of that. Which wasn't to say he hadn't filed away some of the choicer phrases for later use.

"I seem to remember you saying something about liking my mouth," Bob says teasingly, and it's Spencer's turn to bite his lip, because that was under totally different circumstances, and, fuck, Bob drives like a little old lady sometimes.

* * *  
_4.15am_

"Fuck, Bob, I can't believe you managed to find _traffic_ at four am." Spencer slouches more in the passenger seat and drums his fingers against his thigh. They've moved about thirty feet in the last five minutes, and the flashing lights up ahead and brake-lights all around them are doing nothing to reassure his dick that it's going to be seeing much of Bob any time soon. His life seriously sucks.

"Hey, it's your city," Bob says, drumming his own hands on the steering wheel but looking annoyingly zen otherwise. "This kind of shit does not happen in Chicago, Spence, since most places there actually close overnight."

Spencer doesn't see fit to dignify that with a response, just fidgets and watches the digital readout on Bob's dashboard tick the minutes off as they creep further forward.

"I'm going to have to head out pretty soon," he says reluctantly, after they're finally clear of the accident -- some ten minutes later, easily -- and turning onto Bob's street.

"You don't have to come in," Bob says, "I could just take you home-"

"Yeah, _no_," Spencer says, "it's the last weekend before school starts, and we haven't for- I mean, I don't know how much time we'll have, and- fuck, Bob, I want to, okay?"

"Not gonna say no," Bob says quietly, and pulls into his drive, leaning over to kiss Spencer hard on the mouth before he even turns the car off.

* * *  
_4.52am_

Spencer stretches, arching off the bed as he feels the tension start to bleed out of his muscles at last, the sheets twisting around his ankles as he rolls over.

Bob trails his hand over Spencer's stomach lightly, fond and greedy. "Feel better?" he asks, running his thumbnail around Spencer's bellybutton, voice husky.

"Mmmm," Spencer agrees, shifting onto his side to face Bob, hooking his knee over Bob's thigh to hold him close as he slides his free hand into Bob's hair, smoothing it back from his face and rubbing his thumb over the raspy skin on Bob's cheeks. "Definitely. This Watcher thing doesn't work out for you, you should definitely look into massage as a career." Spencer stretches again, working the last of the kinks out of his back, enjoying the way Bob growls as Spencer's body pushes against his, letting the moment draw out while they watch each other, eyes only inches apart and mouths even closer. Spencer couldn't say, afterwards, which one of them it was who'd caved first; just that first Bob's breath was puffing hot against his face, and then his lips were pressed against Spencer's, his mouth cool and inviting, and then Bob rolled them both so that Spencer was tucked underneath him, half-squirming for any kind of friction and yielding completely as Bob's hands moved over him with absolute confidence.

"_Really_ good," Spencer says foggily not all that much later, sprawled out over Bob's chest and having to shake his head because he's somehow wound up with a mouthful of Bob's hair. He slides down Bob's body just a little, tucking his face into the crook of Bob's shoulder; he's actually a little too hot for that much skin-on-skin contact now, but he doesn't really want to move.

"You're really good at that yourself," Bob says sleepily, and maybe kisses the top of Spencer's head, or maybe he's just stretching.

"That's what she said," Spencer mumbles, and tries to grab the sheet with his toes to pull it up over them without having to actually get up and move. He wouldn't put it past Bob to have all kinds of anti-burglary charms on his windows and all, but outside of the heat of the moment he's not entirely comfortable lying around bare-assed where any self-respecting voyeur could see them.

"Your _mom_," Bob says indistinctly, and Spencer snickers because he can't not. And then groans, because- his _mom_, shit, he kind of has to get home, still, and now he's comfortable and really doesn't want to move. Seriously, his life, shit.

He lets his eyes close for just a minute, feeling Bob's heart-beat thump steadily under his ear, just enjoying the lazy drift of the moment, and then steels himself to get up. He rolls off Bob and onto his feet more steadily than he'd have expected five minutes ago, bending to pull the blankets up to Bob's hips -- if he's cold he can manage the rest himself, Spencer figures -- and then bends over to drop a closed-mouth kiss onto Bob's lips.

"I have to get home," he murmurs, and turns to start gathering up his clothes from where they're strewn over Bob's floor.

Bob fights to get his eyes properly open and makes as if he's going to sit up. "Wait a sec, Spence," he says, a little hoarse, "I'll drive you, just let me get-"

Spencer zips up his jeans and then kneels on the side of the bed, hand gentle as he pushes Bob back down again, ducking down for one last, quick kiss. "No, you need more sleep than I do, I can run it. Don't worry." Bob gives him a rueful smile, but he's definitely looking a little faded around the edges now, and Spencer feels a quick flush of guilt because, yeah, Bob has been getting less and less sleep, lately, and Spencer kind of hasn't been helping with that. It's kind of unfair that Bob has to keep up with him, without the benefit of the crazy slayer metabolism and ability to survive pretty well on two or three hours sleep a night. Which isn't to say that Spencer loves getting up in the mornings any more than he used to, just that he hasn't quite graduated to the bags under the eyes and vicious caffeine dependency that Bob (and to a lesser extent Ryan and Brendon) have been cultivating.

Maybe this little break in their workload is actually a good thing. Bob might be able to catch up on a bit more sleep without Spencer having to try and ban him from coming out on patrols a couple nights a week, which he had been starting to seriously consider, and knew wouldn't exactly go down well whenever he suggested it.

"Night, Spence," Bob mumbles, as Spencer pauses in the doorway for one last look, and then he's dead to the world, and Spencer, a little sheepishly, holds that memory close to him as he laces up his shoes, locks the door behind himself and sets off in the chilly predawn darkness to jog home.

It seems to take less time every time he's had to cover that distance, and it's not all that much later when Spencer is moving cautiously towards his own front door -- no sense climbing in a window when the front door is actually further away from his parents' room, and as soon as he gets his sneakers off he can pretend like he was just getting up for a glass of water anyway -- making sure not to trip the motion sensor lights his dad had installed a couple years back, and breathing a sigh of relief when he gets the door open and toes his sneakers off into the hall closet without hearing a breath of sound from the rest of the house. He does his best stealthy ninja impression past his sister's room and into his own, only bothering to kick off his jeans as well before going face-down onto his bed. Fuck, he is kind of tired himself, and hey, at least it's a Saturday and no one's going to expect him up much before noon anyway.

His sheets are all twisted up and loose from when he hadn't bothered to make the bed after getting up that morning, and he has a faint and disquieting flash of some kind of nightmare, something that'd made him even less keen to get up than usual, but the details won't come back at all, and all he really wants to do is let himself pass the hell out like he'd been tempted to do back at Bob's.

If he dreams anything, he doesn't remember it when he wakes.

* * *  
_8.30am_

The insistent chime of his phone breaks through the last stubborn vestiges of sleep, and with a groan, Bob flails a hand out from under the sheets and grabs it before it can vibrate off the end-table.

"Bryar," he gets out, because, seriously, it's- he cracks one eye open grudgingly to look at the blinking red display on his alarm clock -- it's fucking eight in the morning, or as good as, and he's pretty sure it's the weekend, too. All of which is to say that whoever's calling him can just live with that much of a nod towards good manners. Even his mom knows better than to call him before noon, although she makes fun of him for it.

"We're going to need help," a voice announces right over the top of him, no preamble. Bob's stomach churns with a brief surge of unready panic before training and will kick back into gear and wrestle that immediate reaction back down under control.

"Who is this?" he asks, and as if he hasn't said a word the guy -- he's pretty sure it's a guy, the voice is low, masculine, oddly calm -- keeps talking.

"One before us and one with us; two after you and yours, Bob Bryar," and it's hearing his name which makes Bob really wake up and register, shit, he knows this voice, and there is no way this is going to end well for everyone.

"Mikeyway?" he asks incredulously, although if Mikey's in this state it's not exactly as if he should be expecting an answer or to even be able to hold a coherent conversation. He jams the phone tighter to his ear and scrabbles in the drawer for a pen and paper, because sometimes the exact words are important, and shit, Mikey's still talking and he's missing parts of it. He hopes to god that Frank or Gerard or Ray or Otter or _someone_ is on the other end doing the same thing, but he has a bad feeling that it's kind of unlikely this time of the morning. Fuck. This is just what they need.

Mikey's voice doesn't change tone at all as he keeps talking, and Bob's kicking himself for only having a crappy ass biro by the bed, even a pencil would be better, and this is so not the time to be thinking about better things he could be keeping in those drawers, especially since he actually gets to, well. Use some of them, these days.

Which is exactly why Watchers aren't meant to hook up with their slayers, because Bob's attention span is for shit right now, and he pinches the palm of his hand hard to wake himself up and goes back to writing, pressing down hard enough into the pad that even when the ink doesn't quite run the impression is obvious.

"They're hurting and they're dying," Mikey says, precise and kind of monotone. "Tell me later there's no such thing as coincidence, okay?" he says, and then there's just a dial tone echoing in Bob's ear.

"Fucking precogs," Bob groans and slumps back onto his pillow, arm covering his eyes.

He's not entirely out of the loop. He'd known My Chem were playing a festival out in the desert over the weekend, had a side show in town sometime that week. He'd been tempted to go along, maybe even bring Spence, although given the crowd that Gerard and the guys appealed to these days, that could've been a little problematic all by itself, what with Spencer still being in school (if not in any of Bob's classes; they'd made damn sure of that).

Which just brings Bob once again facefirst into one of the issues he's been doing his best to ignore. He scrubs his hands over gritty eyes and tries to think of one part of his life he's not fucking up completely right then and there. Depressingly, nothing much comes to mind immediately; only his stomach chiming in to remind him that among his many sins, he hadn't gotten around to putting any kind of solid food into it last night.

With a last regretful thought for the hour or two of lovely, carefree sleep-in he was clearly not going to be getting, Bob rolls out of bed and pads towards the kitchen.

It was going to be a long two or three hours until anyone else on the tour bus was likely to be awake and making any kind of sense -- there really was no point in calling back then, might as well make sure someone got enough sleep -- so he might as well get himself fed and then start what research he could. Especially since the discussion he's going to have to have with Spencer later in the day is probably going to suck pretty seriously. He maybe should've been laying some of the groundwork weeks ago. It's not a good sign when researching magical rituals which call for _bits of people_ (and seriously, ew. Bob's pretty glad he's only ever flirted with some of the darker arts -- and some of their hotter practioners) is more fun than practice runs of Important Relationship Talks. And he's not inclined to do either on an empty stomach, so after a quick survey of the fridge (mostly empty), he throws enough basic ingredients into the frying pan to qualify as a lazy man's omelette and leaves them to brown as he pulls an armful of books down from the shelves and starts looking up star charts and astrological calendars -- there's no guarantee it's going to be something with a nice neat mystical convergence, but god knows he's been a Watcher long enough to know that ruling that _out_ is a good place to start.

 

* * *  
_10.13am_

Spencer's mom is far, far too cheerful when she wakes him up.

"Mooooooom," he groans, "it's not even eleven."

"And you have chores," she says mercilessly, and swings open his curtains. Fuck, light. _Ow_.

"Don't you know growing boys need their sleep?" he asks, without holding out much hope.

"I think I read something about that," his mom says, and bends over to pick up his jeans and whatever other dirty clothes are bunched up on his floor, and Spencer has a brief and panicky moment where he can't remember if he's left anything in the pockets he shouldn't have -- exactly what that could be he's not sure, he's already passed off stakes as drumsticks more than once without question, and it's not like he's out smoking up or knocking girls up or anything -- and his mom just shakes her head at him with a smile and adds, "but you should have had more than enough by now, so up and at 'em, kiddo."

Spencer pulls the pillow over his head and groans, but there's no escaping it, he knows, so after a suitable interval of muttering he gets up, pulls on sweats, and heads downstairs for breakfast. As awesome as going home with Bob was, his dad's bacon-and-eggs makes a firm argument all on its own for coming home on a Saturday morning. Especially since the traffic they'd gotten stuck in had held them up just enough that they hadn't even made a half-assed attempt to grab any kind of food, and Spencer always forgets just how hungry he gets after slaying. And he has to be home often enough to allay any suspicion – if he's never around, his mom, if no one else, will start asking questions.

* * *  
_12.54pm_

Bob is sitting in his living room, folding laundry, when Spencer gets to his place. "Hey," Spencer says, and then leans in to dare a quick and totally unprofessional kiss -- if it's not safe to be stupid and affectionate there, then it isn't anywhere.

Plus, it's not like Bob is complaining. He drops a t-shirt and says "Hey," kissing Spencer back lingeringly and running a hand through Spencer's hair. "So I got a call from a friend of mine at, like, ass o'clock this morning. He and some other old friends are going to be in town later this week and I guess some weird stuff is going on, like, following them around or something. So... you're up for magical weirdness, right?"

"Always," Spencer says, snuggling down into the couch. "Do you know when, though? I mean, I totally want to help, just, Ryan kind of scored tickets to see MCR at the Orleans, and while I am admittedly worried about the fact he was not specific as to how, I'd kind of like to go..."

Spencer trails off, leaving a nice obvious gap for Bob to tell him "Sure, take the night off, we'll slay later," but what Bob actually does is fidget with the dish towel he's holding and look totally squirrelly, not meeting Spencer's eyes, as he says "Um. Actually. Yeah, going to the concert shouldn't be a problem. They'll – we can meet up with them there."

Spencer narrows his eyes, sits up straight again. It seems like an innocuous statement, but it's not at all like Bob to act cagey like this. "What, your friends are big fans?" he asks.

"No, they – like. They are my friends. Mikey – uh, their bassist? – he's the one who called." Bob is smoothing out a pair of jeans with inordinate care when he finally looks up and at Spencer.

They stare at each other for a couple seconds. "You know My Chemical Romance," Spencer says flatly.

"I actually used to work for them," Bob starts.

Spencer can feel his eyebrows raise. "What, like a tech?"

Bob bites his lip and says, "Running sound, actually," and then, after a moment's pause, "I'm apparently pretty good at it?"

"And you didn't think this was something you could've told me- told us, before now?" Spencer demands.

"It didn't come up!" Bob says in feeble self-defence.

"The hell it didn't. Fuck, Bob, I have listened to them with you! Don't tell me there was never a chance for you to say something, because I will call you a liar to your face."

"Spencer, seriously, you can't have thought that I, like, sprung from an egg the day I met you. I had a life before I was your Watcher."

"Yeah, a life you never ever talk about," Spencer shoots back. "Anything else that _didn't come up_?"

Bob gives a weak grin. "My ex is going to be at the concert, too."

Well, that's just... really unwelcome information. "And he- she?- is...?" Spencer is actually holding his breath, because- if Bob used to, like, date Gerard Way or something, Spencer is going to have to throw up. Or cry. And never tell Ryan, who would just be fucking jealous.

"Brian. Schechter. Their-"

"Yeah, I know who Brian is," Spencer says distantly. It's not like he didn't know Bob had been with people before him, but he didn't expect he'd seen pictures of any of them. He didn't want to know how hot any of them were. Spencer knows _exactly_ how hot Brian Schechter is, and if that's what Bob is used to... well. Spencer already didn't know why Bob is with him, and this is just not helping him answer that question.

Bob reaches out, hand brushing Spencer's shoulder. Spencer doesn't flinch, is careful to keep his face calm, but he can't help but edge away from Bob on the couch. Bob's hand falls back to his side. "Spence," he says. "It's been over for years, we're just friends now, it's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal!" Spencer cries, standing up. "You know more about me than almost anyone, okay, and you _never_ talk about yourself, and then you spring this on me?"

"I didn't- look, just because you sing I'm Not Okay in the car doesn't make it relevant when we're, like, chasing after a vampire."

"Things don't always have to be _relevant_ – you could have said, like, 'hey, I know this band.' You can tell me things. All we ever talk about is slaying!"

"That isn't true! Spence, you're more than just a slayer to me, okay, you know that." Bob's starting to get frustrated now, too, and that look of forced calm that Spencer _hates_ is starting to slip. He's not sure if he's happy about that or not, actually.

"Sure, fine. I need to go talk to Ryan," Spencer says, not quite looking at Bob. He turns to go. "I'm going to patrol on my own tonight."

"I don't know if that's a good idea-"

"Yeah, whatever. I'll talk to you later. Or something."

* * *  
_1.40pm_

Given that Ryan isn't at home, and Brendon doesn't really have visitors, it's a safe bet that they're both going to be at Jon's apartment. Spencer trudges down the hall, looking at his feet and trying to work out what he's even going to say -- he's probably being irrational, he knows it, but knowing that doesn't do anything to make the spiky ball of gloom that's settled itself into his chest give up and go. Probably if he was more of a grown-up he'd be handling this better, but he's acutely aware right now that he's... not.

He's pushing open the door to the living room before he even registers that, actually, it's a little too quiet in the apartment for somewhere containing three teenage boys, especially when one of them is Brendon.

Unfortunately, the slayer reflexes can only do so much, and in the one point four seconds that elapse before Spencer's brain kicks back in with near-frantic demands to his limbs to turn the hell around already, he gets an eyeful. Quite the eyeful, actually. Jon growls and grabs for the threadbare throw rug from the couch, but it's not like Spencer can un-know that Brendon is pretty much _naked_ underneath it, or that Ryan's boxers are kind of too small (oh god) and plaid today, and that Jon's mouth was- and Ryan's hand-

It's not that Spencer hasn't thought about threesomes. It's not even that he hasn't thought about the types that have two or even three guys involved -- not that Spencer has anything against lesbians, either. He's pretty much a fan of attractive naked people in general. He's a teenager, and a guy; he's pretty comfortable with the whole being bi-or-okay-mostly-into-guys-but-keeping-his-options-open thing, and he likes a good jerk-off fantasy as much as the next dude. It's just that... it's just that he'd never really thought all that much about the mechanics -- just about a lot of skin and sweat and hands and mouths -- and he'd definitely, definitely never thought about the mechanics when they involved three of his closest friends, jeez.

"Spencer! Fucking knock!" Ryan's voice is a bit higher than usual, and Spencer is pretty sure he could explain why, too. Fucking hell. Jon is just a little flustered looking, but then he, at least, is mostly still clothed, albeit in a pretty compromising position himself. Brendon is kind of trying to tuck himself behind Jon and Ryan and not saying anything at all, although to be fair it's really not as if it's the first time Spencer's seen Brendon naked. Everyone's seen Brendon naked. He'd just kind of forgotten that Jon and Ryan see Brendon naked in a totally different light than he does.

Spencer backs out of the room, face scrunched up tight as he thanks god he's been over at Jon's often enough by now to dodge both the hall table and Dylan blindfolded. "I did! I knocked, sorry, I didn't- shit, sorry."

He turns around, back against the wall, and waits for the space of a couple breaths. Because, wow, yeah, his day really needed to get more awkward. Spencer lets his head fall back to hit the wall a couple times and considers his options.

"So, hey, can you guys maybe put your pants back on so I can steal Ryan for a minute?" he yells around the doorway, not quite daring to put his head back in yet. There's a quiet murmur that he can't quite make out (and wouldn't try to even if he could), and then another thirty seconds or so before Ryan walks out of the living room, pulling at his shirt so it sits straight, tugging the leather bracelets back down around his wrist. Apparently Ryan leaves his jewellery on while he's having sex. Which is really not information Spencer ever expected or wanted to have.

"What?" Ryan asks, not looking anywhere near as uncomfortable as Spencer knows that he would. God, it's unfair.

"I. Um." Now that he's here, he still doesn't know where to start, and all the rehearsed lines he'd thought of on the way to Ryan's and then Jon's have fallen right out of his head. Depending on his brain to just come up with the right words to talk about it when he got there had not been one of his smarter moves, either. "Hey, so. Going to that MCR concert shouldn't be a problem," he starts, fully aware of just how inadequate that is. This is so stupid, it really is, but- he just kind of needs Ryan right now, even if he's not sure how to say that. And it's not that he doesn't like Brendon and Jon, either, he just- needs some best friend time.

Ryan's look tells him that Ryan doesn't exactly think that was news worth interrupting boyfriend time for, either.

"Weren't you at Bob's this afternoon?" Ryan asks, instead, and Spencer can just feel his shoulders going tight and high.

"Yeah. He wanted to tell me he's got some friends coming in to town later this week. They've been having some kind of woo-woo mystical crap going down, and they wanted to see if we could help them out."

Ryan gives Spencer the eyebrow raise of 'I gather these two pieces of information are connected but I really don't see how.' "And?"

"And," Spencer continues, "it turns out they're Bob's friends he wants us to help."

Ryan pokes Spencer's side with a bony finger and says, a little plaintively, "Spencer. Make sense."

Spencer makes a face and tries again. "My Chemical Romance are the friends that Bob wants us to help. He wants us to meet with them after the show and- I don't know, slay or whatever."

Ryan's gone kind of big-eyed and even more monotone than usual. "Are you shitting me?" Okay, so maybe that news was worth interrupting them with after all, Spencer thinks, a little meanly, but doesn't say anything out loud.

"No, stone cold for-serious truth." Spencer scowls again. Ryan just stares at him, considering.

"Fuck. That's- that's amazing. So why the bitchface?" Ryan asks, probably understandably enough.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Spencer mumbles. Okay, yeah, it's _Ryan_, but that still doesn't mean he actually wants to talk about his feelings or anything. This should not be this hard.

"Yeah, hi, Spence, you come stomping in all 'someone just ate all the cookies and broke my best crayons', you say you want to talk to me alone, and you're not in the living room right now telling Brendon and Jon how we're going to meet My Chemical Romance and flailing, so... yeah, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Ryan crosses his arms over his chest and looks expectant.

"It's a little disturbing how you're still using metaphors from kindergarten," Spencer starts, but that's not going to fly and he knows it. Spencer caves. Okay, like he wasn't going to -- this is why he came over anyway, he kind of needs to lay this out so Ryan can tell him he's being an idiot and he can get over it, but it doesn't actually make it any more pleasant. "Yeah, so Bob also kind of- he told me that they're not just his friends. He used to work for them." Ryan looks intrigued, but doesn't ask. "And, um. He used to be dating Brian Schechter."

"So?"

"So- so he- Brian Schechter, Ry, and he didn't even- he didn't _tell_ me until he had to, and- Fuck. I don't even know. What the fuck am I even doing, I can't- you know what, fuck it, you're busy, I should just go."

"Yeah, that's gonna happen," Ryan says, and grabs Spencer's shoulder and marches him firmly back into the room. Spencer's pretty sure that as a slayer he should be able to break Ryan's grip no problem, but he kind of... can't. He sits down on the couch as directed and makes an unimpressed face, slouching and pointedly ignoring Ryan. He thinks about how he's pretty glad that he saw the three of them on the floor just now, not that that rules out anything happening on the couch before now, and... ew. Spencer scowls even harder. Jon is on the other side of the couch, and Brendon -- thankfully dressed again now -- is sitting at his feet, shoulders tucked in between Jon's knees, fidgeting with the television remote.

* * *  
_1.46pm_

Ryan sits down on Spencer's other side but leans over to the end table and grabs his book instead of explaining just why Spencer is now on the couch with them, instead of off doing Spencer-things. The silence is a little creepy, actually, and Jon knows from creepy.

"What's up?" he asks carefully. Jon isn't an expert in slayer yet, but it looks like Spencer is pouting.

"Spencer's bitchy because Bob didn't tell him he knows My Chemical Romance," Ryan says, not looking up from his book. That... is not a problem Jon would've predicted.

"That's not it, Ryan!" Spencer cries, and yeah, he's definitely pouting.

"Oh yeah, and Bob used to bone their manager," Ryan adds. Jon leans into Spencer, lets their shoulders bump companionably, doesn't even need to look down to tell that Brendon is patting Spencer's foot sympathetically – Brendon might not always take the most obvious route, but he's usually _right_ about how to handle people when they're upset, and he's more comfort than most people might expect. Spencer just slouches back into the couch and looks unhappy.

"I can see how that might not come up?" Jon tries, feeling a little sympathy for Bob, too, because he has a feeling that no one enjoyed whatever conversation had happened before Spencer had gotten to his place. It couldn't have been the easiest thing to bring up; having the past thrown up in your face is never pleasant.

"That's not the point!" Spencer huffs. "I mean, it's not like I don't know he's been with other people before," Spencer is clearly determined to be fair, and just as clearly resenting the hell out of that fact, "I just. I don't know. It makes it weird. And what if-" Spencer throws his hands up in wordless exasperation and buries his face in his hands with a growl that, if Jon didn't know any better, he would've said could have come from close relatives of his. "I really _like_ him," Spencer says, muffled by his palms.

"So go kiss and make up," Jon suggests gently. And, okay, yeah, that suggestion is maybe a little motivated by wanting to get Ryan and Brendon alone again -- Jon had plans for this couch, and they didn't involve bitchy slayers having romantic crises -- but he's at least eighty percent thinking of Spencer and Bob's best interests too.

"Not if he's going to be comparing me to _Brian Schechter_," Spencer says grouchily, but he does sit up, at least.

"Progress," Jon thinks, and tries to think of further sage advice, as Spencer's elder, especially since Ryan hasn't said a word, even though Jon can tell he's listening with every fibre of his body but has no intention of adding anything -- or should that be anything _else_, he wonders? Spencer and Ryan had been in the hall for a couple minutes before they'd trudged back in.

"It'll be fine, Spence," Brendon pipes up, and probably squeezes Spencer's ankle as well, Jon thinks -- Brendon's big on physical movement as punctuation.

 

"Yeah, cos you're being an _idiot_," Ryan adds, although only the four of them in that room could probably tell that he means that a lot more sympathetically than it sounds.

Jon can hear the clock ticking low in the kitchen, sees Dylan pad by the doorway out of the corner of his eye, and waits as the silence builds in the room, resigns himself to the fact that he's not going to be having sexytimes in the living room any time soon and tries to forward that memo to his dick as well. He's only about middling successful with that -- Brendon is still curled up between his feet, and the hand that's not on Spencer is playing with his toes in a way that Jon really, really hopes no one else is noticing, if only for the sake of his self-respect -- although it helps a lot that the person he's touching most right then is Spencer, who at least doesn't smell all kinds of inviting and familiar and stupidly seductive.

Brendon and Ryan both had worked out pretty fast how he responded to scent, and taken shameless advantage -- Brendon liked fancy shampoo as it was, and had started half-heartedly swiping his sisters' body lotions and creams sometimes as well, although that had occasioned some ground rules, because some of that stuff did smell pretty good from a distance, but tasted fucking awful if you were unlucky enough to try to lick some of the bare skin it'd been slathered on. Ryan just liked to use a little cologne when he remembered, but mostly had gotten into the habit of showering with really hot water, or jogging up the stairs to Jon's place, so that Jon would be innocently curled up with his guitar or the cat or trying to cook and then he'd get hit with a wave of warm-clean-boy smell about five seconds before Ryan made it inside, which was usually just enough time to put whatever was in his hands down safely before he wound up with an armful of Brendon and Ryan wrapped around both of their sides.

He still couldn't believe how well this was working, actually; that the three of them could just... be, that no one was bored and that they'd all just accepted him into their friendships as well as their bed, even with- even with the whole occasionally-really-fucking-hairy thing. And as much as he'd been quietly crushing on Ryan and Brendon to start with, even before they were friends and then later a team of roving mystical do-gooders (or possibly raving, Jon could admit), as much as he'd liked them both, thought they were hot, and then fun, and then got to appreciate Ryan's quiet smarts, the dry humour that hid under his even tones, and the way that Brendon threw himself whole-heartedly into everything, even if it was something that could get him hurt -- he was only really now starting to appreciate just how special they were. How crucially a part of his world they'd become. Brendon might seem to be overflowing with love for the whole world most of the time, but there was just enough reserve hiding under that exuberance that Jon could really appreciate the way that Brendon just... had no brakes with him and Ryan. And even Ryan was a hell of a lot more affectionate -- with touch and word -- than Jon would have expected, even when he had been quietly watching Brendon and Ryan together with hazy envy and no clear idea of which one of them he'd rather be.

...of course, sitting there next to Spencer thinking about how completely gone he was for Spencer's two best friends wasn't exactly helping _anyone's_ situation any, so Jon shook off the reflective mood, sat up a little straighter and asked what any self-respecting twenty year old guy would do in that situation.

"So. X-box?"

* * *  
_2.41pm_

"This is stupid."

"Shut up, Tom."

"No, it's stupid," Sean agrees, and flicks the paper off his straw across the table at Max.

They've sort of... colonised is kind of an ugly word, but they've taken up residence in the corner booth of a diner in the suburbs; it's not one of the all-you-can-eat special places so it's not too busy, and it isn't so dirty that none of them can bring themselves to actually eat there, but it's a little bit dingy and definitely not somewhere they're likely to run into any kind of trouble other than maybe a smart-mouth drunk or possibly some badly burned coffee.

"Is this really a good idea?" Ryan asks, playing with the ice in his drink. They'd been out for a couple of hours the night before, and while it was great to run all the kinks out after being stuck in an airline for four hours (which wasn't exactly anything any self-respecting werewolf was too fond of in the first place; it was disorienting being up in the air like that, and the recycled air was... not the greatest thing in the world if your sense of smell was unfortunately acute), they hadn't actually _found_ much.

Max shrugs and looks uneasy. Serious isn't exactly an uncommon look for him, but he's definitely troubled right now. Tom's reminded again just how much more pack business Max winds up involved in than the rest of them, even as young as he is. The Chicago pack has been around for generations now, and they tend to match ability to occupation alarmingly well. "We know there's something going on out here, the newspapers and the reports that've come in from some of the allies we have in this area make that pretty clear."

"Kinda low on detail," Al says, leaning over to steal a fistful of Ryan's fries and getting his hand smacked for his troubles when he tries the same trick on Tom.

"Well, what do you expect?" Max asks, rhetorically, slouching back into the booth seat. "They aren't exactly going to go around advertising that some kind of weird animal is killing people. We're lucky they're not blaming it on coyotes."

"With really pointy teeth?" Ryan snorts, and kicks Al when he picks at his plate again.

"This isn't getting us anywhere," Sean reminds them all, because they've been having variations on this discussion since before they left Chicago. "We need a game plan. Figure out if there is one of our people out here, if we can help, or if we need to take more, uh, direct action– thank you," he adds hurriedly as the waitress swings past again to refill their coffee cups and hand them another jug of water.

"So we stake out the kinds of areas that it'll be attracted to," Max says, ticking options off on his fingers. "Maybe cover the bigger green areas close to town when they're less crowded in the evening, and we can hit some of the clubs where they've reported incidents."

"And if some recreational drinking happens then, too, well, that would just be unfortunate," Ryan adds, grinning. "I think we've got the funds for it."

"Your commitment is stunning," Al says dryly, and downs the rest of his drink. "So, we have a plan, then? Because I'd like to grab a couple more hours sleep before we go out, personally." Their hotel might be cheap, but it has air-conditioning and cable, both of which were instantly dubbed necessities for the climate.

"What about what happened last night?" Tom asks, a little reluctantly, because it's been on his mind all day and he's still not sure how to put words to the feeling. He slides his plate over to the space between Sean (who can always use more feeding up, he thinks) and Ryan, who's making big eyes to imply that he has been tragically, tragically deprived of potato due to the depredations of one Alfred and not at all because he had ordered the tiniest sandwich in the world to start with. Hindsight is such a bitch, especially when your metabolism tends to run nineteen-to-the-dozen and demands a good couple meals a day.

Max raises an eyebrow, cocks his head.

"The people we heard before Ryan found those hoofprints," he explains, playing with the salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table, sliding them back and forth around the laminated menu, just for something to keep his hands busy. "I didn't realise it properly then, but this morning when we got up, it sort of... it came back to me a bit. I think there was someone different there."

"One of us?" Sean asks, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Al is actually the one who just comes out and says it, "with a bunch of teenage humans? That's kind of unlikely."

"But it's probably something we should look into," Sean puts in, not exactly disagreeing with Al, either. None of them are. Wolves are social creatures, and they tend to keep to their own kind most of the time. Which means anything that makes their metaphorical and literal hackles go up, supernaturally speaking, is probably not good. Because more problems are just what they need right now, with a werewolf who may or may not need their help, a rogue unicorn on the loose and god only knows what else just living in Vegas. Strange territory is always kind of a bitch. "So we need to just... figure out what the hell else is running around this town, and take care of it," he says, stating the obvious.

"Do we really think it is him?" Max asks diffidently, not meeting any of their eyes. It's something else that they haven't actually talked about, not out loud, although they're all thinking it. It's the other reason they agreed to be the group to come out and investigate in the first place. Because a wolf away from his pack, out in Nevada? It's not hard to think of one name that fits that criteria, even if he's the last person any of them would expect to be in this kind of trouble.

"If he's here, we'll find him," Sean says firmly, and squeezes Tom's hand under the table.

* * *  
_6.05pm_

"Ew, _gross_," Brendon says determinedly, and flicks the TV off the news channel and back onto another _Simpsons_ rerun.

"What?" Jon yells from the kitchen, where he's staring at the frozen pizza in the oven, apparently in the hopes that it will cook faster if he does so. Brendon had totally pointed out the only way that would work usefully would be if he had X-Ray vision like Superman, and then Spencer had pointed out that X-Rays wouldn't actually cook anything, he'd need microwaves, and that had been a little uncomfortably close to physics homework for them all, which had killed that argument dead faster than any comics-based disagreement could usually be managed.

"Way, way too graphic description of the latest horrible murder out in the desert," Brendon explains with a shrug, and digs his toes into Ryan's hip. "Like, do we really need to know all the gory details? I see enough horrible stab wounds on ER, thanks." Brendon nudges Ryan harder. He needs to pay more attention to them and less to antagonising Spencer, who is totally having a rough day, despite the liberal application of Mariokart and junk food that his friends have been dosing him with.

"I can't believe they let them take cameras that close to a crime scene," Spencer says, kicking the X-box controller back under the coffee table, which was basically where Jon stored them anyway. "It doesn't seem all that helpful but, whatever, media of the new millenium, blah blah. How's the pizza coming, Jon?"

"The cheese is starting to melt?" Jon says, but he sounds a little unsure. Brendon suspects Jon's maybe gotten distracted by a beer and isn't actually watching the pizza. Which could end badly, because Jon's apartment is pretty nice and all, and it certainly fits the three of them for snuggling and could probably hold about twenty people for a good party, but what it does have in reasonably solid walls and no worrisome stains on the carpets, it makes up for by lacking a fair amount of basic functionality, such as an oven that can hold a steady temperature or even has a timer. They have more than once managed to burn dinner with a lack of attention. And Brendon sticking his hand down Ryan's pants was only the problem on _one_ of those occasions, thank you very much. He's occasionally shocked that Jon hasn't managed to set fire to anything ridiculous by himself, but probably that's one of those times where having the superpower sense of smell and all comes in handy. Also, there's the bathroom. About which Brendon prefers not to think, thank you very much.

"I'm so glad you're on top of that," Ryan deadpans, and Brendon snickers, because _on top_, and Spencer rolls his eyes at all of them, and it's just like normal. Just another night. No vampires or suddenly furry boyfriends or people trying to kill them. It's kinda nice.

 

"So what time is your thing tomorrow again, Ry?" Spencer asks at last, and Ryan surfaces properly from his book to slide off the sofa and sit between Brendon and Spencer (they'd been engaged in an epic Crash Team Racing battle; proximity to the TV had been absolutely vital to Brendon's winning strategy and Spencer had merely stolen the tactic from him). He leans into Spencer briefly, temple to temple, and Spencer seems to relax a little, at last, the background tension between him and Ryan finally dissolving as Ryan starts explaining where and when they're supposed to be meeting to see this DJ that he's been kind of stalking on the internet. It's sort of cute when Ryan gets all flustered and fanboys people, Brendon would totally be looking forward to My Chemical Romance for that alone, regardless of his own totally historic and not at all current crush on Gerard Way et al.

"Pizza's up," Jon yells from the kitchen, and there's the usual creak of the oven door protesting being opened, and some clatters that are probably dishes -- sometimes Jon likes to pretend they're civilised and serve things on plates, but it's not like any of them won't be eating with their fingers, it's _pizza_. "You staying, Spence?"

"Duh, yeah," Spencer yells back, and then scoots back up onto the couch, stretching his legs out along the seat as he leans back into the arm. "I'll head home for a bit soon, and then sneak out to patrol later. You guys can take the night off," he adds magnaminously, which is basically Spencer-code for "I kind of want to be alone right now".

Brendon would normally protest over Spencer's blatant couch-stealing, and totally fight for the best spot, but the floor is actually a lot better for being able to stick stuff on the coffee table. Besides he can lean all over Ryan, and feed Jon tidbits whenever he gets his ass in there, and Spencer will feel a lot better if he gets to yell at them more for being gross and couple-y, so it's basically win-win.

* * *  
_7.30pm_

"I don't think a unicorn's going to be around here anywhere," Max says sensibly. Somehow, it seems completely safe _and_ appropriate to make a statement like that in broad daylight and in public when the 'public' concerned is the Strip.

"Well, yeah," Ryan says, dragging him into Caesar's, "but we need to rule it out, right?" He stalks purposefully towards the penny slots, the other four in tow.

"Besides," Sean adds, even more sensibly, "we kind of have to wait until dark to start prowling around parks and graveyards, right? Because otherwise someone's going to panic and call the park ranger, and then where will we be?"

"In the county pound bitching about tranquillizer darts?" Tom suggests, snickering, and Ryan and Sean look kind of betrayed, because seriously, are they ever going to live that down?

* * *  
Sunday  
* * *  
_12.46am_

Patrolling by himself is kind of peaceful. Spencer's normally surrounded by a mob of people (some of whom are more helpful than others), and no matter how hard they're trying, it always ends up being _loud_. Spencer's slayer senses can generally work beyond that – there's something to be said for being able to preternaturally tell when vampires are around, even when he can't hear them over Brendon's singing – but he doesn't know how many baddies they've warned off with the din.

He's making his way through the southern edge of the Badlands -- he's pretty sure most slayers don't split their time pretty evenly between cemeteries and fucking golf courses, but that's Vegas for you -- if there's any decent-sized green spot around the city that someone hasn't tried to put a sand trap in, he'd, well, he wouldn't eat any of Ryan's hats, but he'd be pretty shocked. It's actually been pretty quiet lately, there's been no signs of anything round here since they busted up a couple vamps late last month, but he was feeling kind of antsy about it all the same. He's not sensing anything unusual, though. Even the sounds he hears are all pretty clearly traffic or from mundane animals, no demons or anything. Spencer thinks he might actually go a night without killing anything, which would be a pleasant change.

And that was probably just exactly the type of thought that Murphy hangs around waiting for, because almost as if he'd cast a spell and chanted it up, he hears movement just over the other side of the green, in the scrubby patch of desert bordering the course that acts as a buffer between the road and the country club. It doesn't, admittedly, sound like vamps -- there's generally more skulking type noise and then screaming when it's vamps, and they also tend to at least start out near the clubhouses, because god knows the, well, the buffet is better there, as much as he hates to admit the metaphor. It sounds kind of like animals, but there's something that sets Spencer's spidey-sense to tingling, and before he can second-guess himself (or wish he had backup, wish that Bob- that any of the guys were there too) he melts into the longer grass at the edge of the course, trying to find a tree to hide behind.

The light reflecting in from the street isn't falling all that evenly over the broken ground, and it's actually messing with his night vision, so all he sees at first are a couple of long low shapes -- maybe coyotes? If so, they're pretty far into town, and that's not normal, or at least not good. And then one of them moves a little more and Spencer's blood runs cold. He could swear- if he didn't know Jon was tucked up at home safe and sound with Brendon and Ryan, he'd swear it was Jon out here. The lithe movement, the- there's just something that looks so fucking familiar about the way the dog-wolf-whatever curves back into shadow.

As far as any of them know, Jon's the only wolf in town. Apparently most of the North American packs are based much further east, or up in Canada. He guesses he can sympathise -- if he had a heavy coat of fur to deal with on a regular basis he'd probably like to be somewhere it gets properly cold, at the very least. Then again, if there's anything Spencer's learned in the last couple of months, it's that the shape of something doesn't actually mean shit about what it is or what it's doing. They could just be big dogs. Or coyotes. Or ghosts or anything at all under the sun. Stars. Whichever.

Spencer inches forward another foot or two, and then the wind changes -- he can feel the hairs on the back of his neck pick up a little as well, and a low bass growl spits from the dark shape closest to him and then the whole pack races off.

"Oh, hell no," Spencer curses, and chases after them. It's a stupid impulse -- they've got four legs and he's only got two, and so maybe he's got the advantage in a sprint to start with, but after only a minute or two he's completely lost them -- either they've vanished into the scrub or into the backyards of the houses crowding around the edges of the green, or, he thinks uncomfortably, they've regrouped somewhere and got dressed and melted back into their cars and anonymous humanity. Feeling a little bit sheepish for not having been more cautious in getting closer, he picks his way back to where he'd first seen them milling about -- maybe there'll be something there to tell him whether he should be worried or not.

It's just slightly too dark to make much of anything out, and he can't see or hear anything immediately suspicious, at least. Maybe it was just a pack of wild dogs after all.

He's right by the edge of one of the water traps as he finishes up scanning the area, and the ground's gotten notably softer, his Nikes squelching a little. He tries not to visibly wince – he doesn't wear his _good_ shoes to patrol anymore, but he still likes these, dammit.

He's crouched down to examine them – if he can get the mud off right away he'll probably be fine – when he notices... okay, that's weird. Despite Bob's best efforts he hasn't actually got into the habit of carrying a flashlight yet -- the batteries tend to get pinched for things like the DVD remote at Ryan's place, and also it's kind of heavy and usually he doesn't need it anyway -- so it's with faint resignation that he pulls his phone out of his pocket and uses that to MacGyver up a bit of direct light. He frowns at what definitely look like _hoofprints_. Spencer went to summer camp, he knows what hoofprints look like, and there is absolutely no reason for a horse to have been there. He's pretty sure the groundskeepers would have shot one on sight, if someone was riding it or not. They're kind of protective of the grass. Spencer should know, he'd gotten chased off the grounds with his bike more than once as a kid, and none too infrequently recently when they'd been patrolling a little too early at the beginning of summer.

Something horse-_shaped_, though... that could be anything. He thinks back to the pack of whatever-they-were that he'd been chasing before and wonders if they have hooves. It seems kind of... demonic (even if they're not cloven, which is _something_ at least), and that is the last fucking thing Spencer wants to have to deal with now. Although, hey. He's maybe a little dumb, because there's only one set of prints, at least, which does sort of lower the odds that it's directly related to the dog-things he'd just seen. Maybe this was what was what had been making him twitchy, because it sure as hell screams supernatural a lot louder than anything else he's seen tonight.

He tries to follow the prints, but they veer off onto drier ground pretty quickly, going the complete opposite direction than the dogs had run in, and he's not exactly a master tracker. He gives it up after a couple minutes. Besides, he'd have no idea what to do if he found a centaur or whatever.

He files it away to ask Bob about, then changes his mind. Spencer can research this on his own, no sweat. No need to bring Bob into this.

* * *  
_1.00am_

"Shit, that was too fucking close," Max says, lying on his back and panting. They'd had to run a lot harder than he'd expected to get away from whoever that guy poking around the golf course had been. Most humans couldn't even remotely keep up for more than thirty seconds or so, but either this guy was in training for a serious track team or something even weirder than they'd known about was going on. He'd had to break a sweat, jeez. That had really not been on the plan for the night, not unless they'd found what they were after, and the only tracks in the neighbourhood were a good day old.

"I'm just glad Al spotted him," Sean agrees, rolling his head to stretch out the kinks in his neck. "Who the hell was that guy, anyway?"

"He smelled mostly human," Max puts in, but there was... there was something weird in that, too. Mostly was definitely the operative word.

"D'you think he has anything to do with the you-know-what?" Ryan asks lazily, pulling his jeans up over his hips and tucking his thumbs into the pockets. He hasn't bothered to find a shirt yet, although it's warm enough still (for them, at least) that he's probably not going to miss it any time soon. It's not like they aren't all going to enjoy the view, anyway.

"I can't believe you're so fucking superstitious about calling it by its proper name," Tom grumps, stuffing his feet into his flip-flops, or at least they'd better be his. Even Sean gets sort of cranky when Tom stretches out his flip-flops by being too lazy to stop and find his own. Max grins to himself a little as he notices that despite the bitching, Tom hasn't exactly mentioned it either.

It's not that, like, they really believe it's going to show up if they talk about it directly. Magic doesn't work like that. Not even myths work like that.

But still.

Just in case.

* * *  
_2:11am_

Spencer gets in late, and with almost nothing in the way of drama. It's maybe only the second or third time he's got through an entire patrol without having to slay anything, and while the break was kind of nice, it's also... well, it's made him suspicious. And paranoid. And paranoid might be great for staying alive and all, but it is hell on the spinal column -- Spencer has been tense and jumpy for the entire rest of his circuit after he'd spotted those hoofprints. He'd thought, as he swung through the edges of downtown proper, that he'd seen a big dog nosing around one of the alleys, but when he'd jogged up to check, all that'd been there was a knocked-over trash can (which smelled _awesome_) and a squirrel which looked like it'd been hit by a car. It was entirely possible he was jumping at shadows, but he'd felt better for checking.

The filthy alley trip coupled with that sprint through the back of the golf course has left him gross and sweaty, and probably not smelling all that great either. His bed looks soft and inviting and Spencer wants nothing more than to fall face down into it and just not have to think (or move) for a couple of hours, but he's pretty sure his mom just washed the sheets and she might have some uncomfortable questions about just what the hell he's been doing. It's probably actually a bad thing he's past the stage of having to get up and stuff his sheets into the washing machine in the middle of the night on a semi-regular basis these days. It might be embarrassing, but faking the odd wet dream would probably have helped some of the more spectacular post-slaying muck. Well, for the times he wound up at home and not with Bob, anyway.

Fuck it, Spencer thinks, and decides to risk a shower after all. He's got the beginnings of a stress headache from wracking his brain to figure out if he's missed anything, whether he should actually be doing this on his own after all, and his shoulders are tight and achy as well. Hot water basically sounds like the best idea ever.

He kicks his dirty clothes under the bed -- he'll deal with them later -- and grabs his pajamas, shoving his arms into his bathrobe and tying it haphazardly. It's like two in the morning, who's going to see? He hardly dares to breathe creeping down the stairs and into the kids' bathroom, and when he closes the door and flicks the light on, he has to actually lean against it for a second and breathe hard, just to get enough oxygen again. So maybe he was a little bit more wound-up than he'd realised.

The hot water feels as good as he'd hoped, and Spencer lets himself slump against the wall for several long minutes, forehead pressing sweatily into the tiles while his back unknots, inch by inch. With a choked groan, he straightens up eventually -- he should really get moving, he doesn't want to push his luck too badly, thank god the pipes don't make much noise and his whole family tend to sort of sleep like the dead. He makes a half-assed effort with the washcloth and shower gel to get all the eau de cemetery off, swiping the soapy foam over his arms and chest, around the back of his neck and behind his ears (seriously, his mom still checks sometimes, it's like he's not almost eighteen or anything already), over his hips and stomach.

It seems like way too much effort to move enough to actually scrub his legs -- and Spencer's pretty sure that, like, the soap should've just done soap-things already what with gravity rinsing it past and all -- and he's beginning to get slightly pruney as it is, so with a tired little sound he lets his head fall back into the spray, eyes closed tight, and drops the washcloth behind him. His hand curves around his dick almost on automatic, fingers tightening. It's habit, really; Spencer has two nosy sisters and parents who are home most of the time, he jerks off in the shower a _lot_. And it's only been a couple of months, but he'd noticed pretty early on that slaying tended to make him, well. Horny. Having spent the last five or six weeks displacing that urge by sleeping with Bob has not exactly helped.

And that thought is definitely a mistake. He does try to keep going, his fist sliding slick up and down, because getting off would be _nice_ and maybe it'd help him sleep, but his mind is now stuck on a maddening whirl of thoughts he doesn't want -- Bob, the way Bob looks when Spencer kisses him and touches him and goes down on him, and that should really be a turn on, except it's all mixed up with imagining Bob with Brian and what they'd look like together, and that's hot as well, except it makes Spencer feel young and stupid and miserable, all tight in the pit of his stomach, and he knocks his head against the tiled wall in disgust and gives up, because he doesn't exactly feel like getting off anymore.

Spencer gives himself a stern pep-talk, switches the water off and towels dry. He deliberately doesn't let himself think about Bob again until after he's tugged on his pajamas and crawled into bed, and then after tossing and turning for a good forty-five minutes, he bites his lip, concentrates hard on sex that he _was actually there for_, and jerks himself off, fast and mostly unsatisfying. He falls asleep just before the sun starts to colour his windows pastel.

* * *  
_8.47am_

Brendon has an early shift at the Smoothie Hut -- he'd practically had to promise his firstborn to his manager to get shifts traded around so he could have the evening off for Ryan's birthday, mostly because no one wanted to work with Jack; apparently Brendon was the only one who got to enjoy that particular pleasure most of the time, which was totally a symptom of him still being the new guy and not at all the result of his own occasional clumsiness. Although at least Brendon actually turned up to all of his shifts, which was more than could be said for _some_ people.

And possibly more than can be said for Brendon right now, because he'd got in seriously late from Jon's, and consequently gone out like a fucking light when he finally fell into his own bed. Ryan was staying the night, lucky bastard, which also meant he'd be getting bacon for breakfast and to sleep in all tucked up against Jon, rather than guilt about missing church.

"Oh, fuck," Brendon swears, _very_ quietly, because he can add to that always-fun moment the new and horrible realisation that his work pants aren't exactly clean (he must've, like, sat in a strawberry or something, at least it mostly comes off with a sponge and water), and his shoes have just fucking vanished. He was pretty sure he'd tossed them into the corner of the room when he'd gotten home, but either they'd gotten up and walked off or his aim was seriously off. And he's totally about to be late for his shift.

He pounces on his shoes when a final desperate scan of his room reveals the toe poking out from under a pile of school books, and oh, hey, that must've been the crash he'd heard after he flicked the lights out. Possibly he should make time to clean his room sometime soon, too.

He curses under his breath the entire way to work, and the only reason he's not more than thirty seconds late is that somehow he hits every single green light he could. Someone is totally watching out for him, that's for sure.

Jilly makes it in about a minute after he does, which is not terrible for a Sunday morning really, and they manage to get set and opened up in record time. The massive mess out the back of the store -- trash cans tipped over, awesome, Brendon so doesn't get paid enough to deal with this -- takes a bit longer to deal with, but by midday everything's running smoothly and Brendon has only got two more hours to kill before he can go home and then to Jon's. His parents have been surprisingly good about letting him out on a school night for once; he suspects they're maybe just grateful he has friends right now. And Ryan and Spencer both pass the Good Influences On First Glance test with parents, which helps a lot. Jon probably would too, but bringing him home might involve too many questions Brendon's not exactly ready to answer yet. Like "how did you meet?" and "how come you're not in school?"

Singing in their band is the very least of the things Brendon can't tell his parents right now.

* * *  
_4.25pm_

Ryan's been at Jon's approximately half an hour before Brendon comes clomping cheerfully up the stairs to join them. Ryan's had just long enough to dump his bag in the bedroom, because he's _not_ wearing the same outfit out for his birthday outing that he is for hanging around with Jon and Brendon, and he's sweet-talked Jon into making them both coffee, even though Jon's already pulled an eight hour shift today more-or-less doing just that. Still, it has to be said that Jon doesn't usually take much persuasion, or at least not when Ryan's the one asking him.

"Hey," Brendon drawls, his tone completely at odds with his enthusiasm as he flings himself onto the couch between the two of them (Jon and Ryan have learned from experience; their mugs are out of range and safely on the floor at the side of the couch before Brendon's even in the door). He nuzzles at Ryan's neck affectionately, and Ryan tries to be annoyed -- Brendon's hair is still damp from a shower, and it _tickles_, but it's still basically stupidly adorable, and Jon making silly faces at him over Brendon's shoulder doesn't help.

"Say hi to Jon, too," Ryan says, tugging at Brendon's hair gently, letting the too-long strands wind around his fingers. Brendon hasn't gotten it cut in a while; Ryan's not sure whether that means anything or not. Then again, Brendon's not really that worried about what he looks like most of the time anyway. Being unfairly hot probably helps with that, Ryan thinks secretly.

"I was enjoying the view," Jon protests half-heartedly, but he leans in to kiss Brendon without an instant of hesitation, letting the kiss get hot and dirty fast. Ryan bites his lip and squirms a little -- Brendon's heavy over his lap, and Ryan likes to watch, so this is good, and also just on the right side of frustrating. Brendon also manages to shift his weight deliberately so he's grinding down on Ryan while Jon bites at his jaw, and that's- that's just unfair, actually.

"Wanna go to my room and fool around?" Jon asks, breathless, breaking away from Brendon at last and looking up at Ryan through his lashes. They've all slid down on the couch a little -- Jon gets kind of boneless and slouchy when he's making out; Ryan would mock his terrible posture but he's afraid he's mirroring it.

"Stupid question, Jon Walker," Brendon says, and wriggles more. Ryan bites his lip. "Come on," he says, before bouncing up and then tugging at both Jon and Ryan's hands, leading them into Jon's room.

The bed is unmade, the covers mussed, and it's only been a couple of weeks -- or maybe months -- but this is so familiar to Ryan already, and he marvels anew at how he still finds that comforting rather than boring.

And comforting is, perhaps, inadequate as a description as well, because Jon's palm settles in the small of Ryan's back, urging him forward to join Brendon, who's sprawled on his back in the sheets already, fingers hooked suggestively under his belt while he looks up at them. Comforting doesn't even begin to describe it. Addictive, maybe; breathtaking, definitely. And arousing, Ryan can't leave that one out.

Not when Brendon's rolling on his side to kiss Ryan, their bodies lining up, Brendon's hips rolling forward to press into his.

"Jon," Ryan growls, breaking away from Brendon to pant for a second, although he doesn't bother to pretend like he hasn't got one hand tucked into the back of Brendon's jeans still, fingertips teasing the soft curve of his ass. It's a little uncomfortable, looking back over his shoulder like this, but the muscle strain is more than worth it. "Jon, this is more fun when you're _with us_."

Jon shoots them a rueful smile and shuffles over to the bed, shrugging out of his shirt, and starting to unbutton his jeans. "Sometimes I like to admire the big picture," he says, crawling over to bookend Ryan's body with his, raising up on his elbows to kiss him in turn. "Not get bogged down in the details," he adds, words buzzing against Ryan's lips.

"Big picture, huh?" Brendon asks with emphasis and an evil grin, reaching down to grope Ryan, rubbing over the length of his dick.

"You know it," Jon says, letting Ryan's mouth go with one last bite, catching his lower lip lightly between his teeth and tugging. He smirks as his hand snakes over Ryan's hip to join Brendon's, pressing down harder. Ryan bites back a whine.

"Ooh, pretty," Brendon says, and he should sound silly, but mostly he just sounds smug, eyes bright as he untucks Ryan's shirt from his slacks, unbuttoning from the bottom up. His hands frame Ryan's hips, thumb and forefinger stroking over bare skin. He leans in again to lick over Ryan's collarbone, lets his hand drift back to pull the tails of Ryan's shirt out as well, not-accidentally running his knuckles over Jon's stomach as well, little finger catching at the top of Jon's boxers; all that he's wearing now.

"Bren, you should get more naked," Jon says, and Ryan muffles a laugh, because that's sure not a problem they usually have. Brendon's usually the first to disrobe and the last one to bother putting even rudimentary clothing back on. It's not exactly a habit Jon or Ryan discourage.

"I'm working on it," Brendon says, indignant. "Tell Ryan to stop distracting me."

"I'm working on it," Jon parrots, and reaches around to unzip Ryan's pants, trying to work them down his thighs and over his knees.

Ryan sighs long-sufferingly and rolls onto his back, arching up and lifting his hips off the bed, kicking his pants off his ankles and onto the floor. When he settles back again, Brendon's jeans and underwear are off too, and he has his t-shirt half over his head. His hair is kind of sticking up awkwardly when he finally tosses the shirt to the floor as well, and says "ha!", sounding unreasonably pleased with himself.

"Congratulations," Ryan says, because he just can't help himself. Brendon just brings it out in him, sometimes.

Jon's fingers spider-walk up Ryan's side, just this side of ticklish, and his nails drag down over his chest, unabashedly going straight for a nipple.

"What do you want, birthday guy?" Jon asks, voice warm against the back of Ryan's neck, his hard-on nudging at the backs of Ryan's thighs.

"My birthday's not for another couple days," Ryan protests, but Brendon just shakes his head and says "Nuh-uh, it's your party tonight. Which means it's _your party_," and then he waggles his eyebrows ridiculously.

Sometimes Brendon is a little embarrassing.

Ryan just kind of wishes he didn't always find it a turn-on. And, he realises, it's probably not exactly a coincidence he's in the middle right now, either. Jon and Brendon are both more than capable of sneaky sex plans, and he's not the slightest bit convinced that they didn't plan something.

"I really don't care," he says honestly, rolling onto his back again so he can see both of them; there are some purely mechanical disadvantages to a three-person relationship. "Just, get me off, please?"

He arches a little under their gaze, reaching his hands up above his head, crossed at the wrist. He's not shy, he knows that this pose shows his body off; his dick curving hard against his belly, fingers restlessly clasping and unclasping.

"Brendon could go down on you," Jon suggests, voice husky, and Brendon nods, watching Ryan's mouth and not looking at his cock.

"And you?" Ryan asks, challenging.

They're in Jon's bed and all, but he's still not entirely sure that Jon doesn't see himself as some kind of optional extra here. Jon's always pushing them -- well, not pushing them per se, Jon's almost painfully cautious when it comes to that, Ryan's never been with anyone so careful to establish consent, before -- but it's more that he's pushing Ryan _at_ Brendon while he makes eyes at the two of them. Ryan feels like he spends a lot more time than he should reminding Jon that he's allowed to touch.

Brendon's picked up on it, too, Ryan knows, but where Ryan will insinuate and suggest, invite and demand, using his voice and words; Brendon will cuddle close, will initiate soft kisses and careless touches, quiet reassurances that they're hoping Jon will internalise sooner rather than later.

Jon seems to get the hint this time, leaning over to brush his lips over Ryan's, his face very close to Ryan's as he stills, eyes warm and steady.

"Ask me," he murmurs, trailing his hand down over Ryan's stomach, fingertips circling his navel without quite dipping in, like a coin on one of those plastic wishing wells in the mall.

Ryan squirms, wanting Jon's hand lower, or maybe his mouth, or Brendon's.

"Hrm," Jon hums before pulling back, exchanging a look with Brendon. "Cat got your tongue, Ross?"

Ryan could make jokes here about wolves in human clothing, but he's a better guy than that. Okay, maybe he just has too much dignity to stoop that low.

"I want to watch you," Ryan says, looking from Brendon -- smiling at them both, stroking himself lazily, and god, that's hot all on its own -- to Jon, who's quirking a grin at Ryan's kid-in-a-candy-store expression, and just as clearly trying not to be distracted by Brendon. Ryan can sympathise.

"Be more specific," Brendon complains.

"Fuck Jon," Ryan says immediately. Jon is so, so hot when he's taking it, and frankly Ryan always finds it kind of hard to concentrate when he's the one inside him. And Brendon goes wonderfully non-verbal when he's close to coming. "If that sounds good to you."

"Always," Jon says, favouring Brendon with a filthy grin and a salacious wink, and,

"Yeah, like I'd say no to that," Brendon adds, eeling over Ryan's body so that he can crawl on top of Jon, knees clamped down either side of his waist. "Hey, Ry, want to get his boxers for me?"

Brendon leans forward to kiss Jon again, slow and dirty, and Ryan just looks for a minute, enjoying the contrast of pale skin and dark hair, the soft sounds of their mouths working. Jon wriggles helpfully when Ryan gets his hands on his underwear, bucking up against Brendon, who just growls and nips playfully at his mouth, grumbling, "Stay still."

Ryan trails his fingers down Brendon's spine, folding his legs under his body so he can sit close enough to see and not be in the way. Or at least touch without restricting their range of motion. "That better?" he asks, licking his thumb before brushing it back over the dip at the base of Brendon's spine, making him shiver. Brendon drops more heavily into Jon, his weight settling between Jon's bare thighs.

"Be better if you could get me the lube," Brendon says matter-of-factly.

Ryan snickers a little, but leans back over to the bedside table and rummages around Jon's drawers. They didn't exactly take their time last time they did this, and the condoms have gotten buried under some of the rest of the junk Jon keeps in there, so it takes Ryan a little longer than usual to fish them out; the lube at least is easier to find.

He twists to toss them onto the bed beside them, in easy reach, and has to stop and take a deep breath, because in the few moments that he hasn't been paying attention, Brendon's slid down Jon's body so that he's sprawled between his legs, his right hand holding Jon's knee up and out of the way while he licks at the head of his cock. Jon's breathing fast, trying to hug his knee up to his chest so Brendon can get closer, can stop teasing him. Ryan's at the perfect angle to see _everything_, and it makes his mouth go dry.

Brendon's hands are agile and clever, and Ryan has a sense-memory flashback of just how they feel on him, too, admires how they look on Jon's skin. Jon's taken some pictures since they've been together; arty black and whites of Brendon's mouth, fuzzy-focused shots of them kissing taken with a tripod, Ryan's hands on Brendon's waist. There's nothing terribly identifiable -- at least, not to anyone who doesn't know them intimately -- but all the same, they're obvious enough that Ryan can't keep prints like he wants to, can't put them up on his walls or even leave them on his computer. There's a lot of reasons he's planning to move into a dorm for college eventually, that's just one of them. And right now, he wants Jon's camera with an ache that's almost physical, wants to record this, with something more than his own frail human memory. God, they're beautiful.

"Ryan," Jon whines, reaching out for him, eyes flickering fast between him and Brendon, and Ryan knows he said he wanted to watch, still does, but he wants to kiss Jon more. So he shoves the supplies haphazardly in Brendon's direction, tries to ignore the "score!" Brendon cheers as he flicks open the lube.

Ryan's draped across Jon's chest, kissing hungrily when Jon shifts underneath him, makes a tiny sound into his mouth that Ryan knows means that Brendon's fingering him, teasing him open. He pulls away, grinning when Jon's eyes flutter open again and his mouth chases after his, and looks down Jon's body, over his shoulder. Brendon's eyes are narrowed in concentration, and he has two fingers inside Jon, moving ever-so-slowly.

"You want it faster, Jon?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You're the worst pair of teases in the state," Jon says, and then Brendon does something with his index finger and Jon whines, amending that to "in the _country_."

"You love it," Ryan says, trying not to hold his breath, because that's- that's as close as they've got to that kind of declaration, so far.

"You know it," Jon replies instantly, trying keep his breathing even, and acting as if he hasn't heard what Ryan almost said. He thinks he did, though, Jon had gone preternaturally still for a second, in that way he had which couldn't help but remind Ryan sometimes that for all he looked and felt and acted human, his reflexes at least were something more. Jon maybe didn't say much, sometimes, but he processed _fast_.

"Is that enough?" Brendon asks a few minutes later, starting to sound a little strained. Ryan can imagine how he feels, Jon tight and hot around his fingers, and he'd be impatient too. Is impatient.

"Yeah, now, Brendon, please," Jon grunts, looking equally desperate.

Brendon slithers up the bed to kiss him hotly, stretching so he can keep his hand on Jon's ass, fingers crooking teasingly.

"Brendon," Ryan warns, and Brendon listens to him where he wouldn't to Jon, or at least humours him, because he wiggles his fingers at Ryan -- their international symbol for 'condom, please', and rolls it on, rearranges Jon's limbs with easy familiarity and pushes inside in one easy thrust.

Ryan's bare inches away before he's quite registered that he's moved; watching eagerly, the smooth motions of Brendon's hips and the way Jon yields under him.

It doesn't take long -- Brendon claims he has moves, but he's still a teenage guy, and Jon is, well, kind of easy, which Ryan is not complaining about either -- and Brendon stills, his head falling onto Jon's chest, eyes screwing up closed as his hips stutter and he comes.

Jon's not quite there, but Ryan rolls on top of him as soon as Brendon's pulled out, kisses him desperately and shifts so he can work his own fingers inside him, finger-fucking him and letting Jon rub off against him, his dick hot against Ryan's stomach. "Fuck, that's hot," Brendon breathes, from just over Ryan's shoulder, watching with lazy post-coital interest, and Jon moans and comes, spreading wet and uneven over Ryan's skin.

"It really is," Ryan agrees, shifting and a little sticky, before he reaches over to pull Brendon in for another kiss, enjoying the throb of blood pulsing in his dick, the way his body wants and the satisfaction of making it wait. Jon's hand curls around the back of his neck, scratching over the knob at the top of his spinal column.

"You didn't get off yet," Brendon says, almost accusingly, and he reaches for Ryan, like he's determined to do something about that.

Ryan slits an eye open and glances at the numbers on the alarm clock on Jon's bedside table, splits the difference on an open-mouthed kiss between Jon's lips and Brendon's, and says, "We've still got a bit more time."

 

* * *  
_6.30pm_

Spencer's parents have been surprisingly good about letting him out the night before school starts back. His mom usually frowns on anything after dinner Sundays as a matter of course, but he figures the fact it's Ryan's birthday celebration -- and that Ryan's in _college_ now and theoretically grown-up -- is giving him a bit of leeway. Or maybe Spencer's parents are smart enough to figure that Spencer might be kind of worried about how Ryan won't be around so much, all the shiny new attractions of girls and parties and a ridiculously huge new library to hole up in all hours of the day taking some of the best-friend time they've guarded for years now. ...Spencer's parents are maybe a bit behind the curve on a few things in his life right now, and while Spencer isn't so worried about the college thing as he might've been six months ago -- Ryan is pretty damn committed to the band, and to playing Jean Grey to Jon's Wolverine and all -- it's still nice to have some time that's unambiguously set aside for them. And then Spencer gets hung up for a minute trying to work out if that makes Brendon Cyclops (ew) or Professor X (also ew) and then figures that since their goopy romance novel love is actually requited and all, it's probably a useless metaphor anyway. And thinking about boyfriends is sort of depressing anyway because it mostly just reminds him that he's kind of mad at his, still.

He sets the table as requested and then hides out in his room until his sister yells that dinner's ready. It's probably the last weekend for a while that he won't have homework, and if he's going out in an hour or two anyway it's not like he can do much in the way of useful slaying research, so it basically just seems kind of wasteful that he's not holed up at Bob's enjoying one last taste of freedom. Their timing is really not the most awesome, here.

Spencer escapes the family dinner mostly unharrassed and gets out of the house again with the bare minimum of questions about what they're doing -- one small mercy is at least no one expects them to be doing anything like drinking, just suffers a kiss on the cheek from his mother that she tells him firmly to pass on to Ryan along with instructions to have fun at the show. He's told them that it's a coffee house downtown -- tiny little white lie, in the grand scheme of things -- and that he's probably going to stay the night at Ryan's afterwards if the show runs late, so don't wait up or worry, he's got his phone, yadda yadda yadda, the usual drill. And he more than likely will crash at Ryan's; at least he won't blink if Spencer sneaks in at 3am covered in mud, and it's not like Ryan's dad is likely to wake up or tell Spencer's parents.

The only downside is that at Ryan's he's stuck on the crappy old couch (sharing with Ryan has just seemed kind of weird since he and Brendon got together), instead of in his own bed. Spencer is actually really fucking fond of his own bed, for all that he hardly gets to see it these days. Maybe in a couple of years he can figure out a way to get out of this whole slaying gig and just spend six months catching up on his sleep.

It's possible he's getting a bit tired. Not sleeping much that morning had really not helped at all. His dad had just raised an eyebrow meaningfully when he'd snapped at Crystal, and he knew he'd be getting serious questions if he let himself grump around as much as he wanted to. Getting roped into doing yardwork in the afternoon hadn't exactly improved his temper much, either.

* * *  
_9:45pm_

Spencer sort of wants to hole up and avoid Bob, at least for a couple days, but the plans were to celebrate Ryan's birthday that night as a group, and it would require a better excuse than "I'm kind of tired and pissy after being awake half the night having stereotypical teenage angst" for Spencer to skip out. Spence knows he has to man up, even though he wasn't all that invested in the first place. The real idea is to go to some club Ryan keeps talking about -- some friend of his is DJing -- under the premise that Ryan would at least have fun, even if no one else did.

Bob distributes the most professional-looking fake IDs Spencer's ever seen with a look that's trying to be stern. "These will only work tonight," he says. Spencer's pretty sure they're magic.

They've arrived early enough to snag a table. Brendon drags Ryan – who isn't exactly complaining -- out to dance right away. They both make grabby hands at Jon, but he seems uncharacteristically twitchy and shouts over the music, "maybe after a beer."

Spencer and Bob are left sitting beside each other; Spencer is tense, trying to keep their sides from brushing together, and he sort of suspects Bob is trying the same thing. He's nursing a Coke and wondering if he should attempt some small talk when Jon abruptly sits up straight, looking up from the beer which had been receiving his rapt attention. He's suddenly alert, looking for all the world like a dog sniffing the air.

"What is it?" Spencer calls across the table. He doesn't sense anything weird, but his supernatural senses don't exactly function the same as Jon's.

"I just thought I smelled something," Jon says, watching the unsteady stream of people coming in through the door. "But I couldn't have-" Jon cuts himself off by loping over to the entrance. It's not very dramatic, but Spencer can see that Ryan and Brendon have stopped their dancing – well, Brendon was dancing, Ryan was sort of flailing endearingly – to watch.

Jon's standing in the middle of a bunch of guys Spencer's never seen before, hugging some blonde dude with a nose ring. When he looks back to the dance floor, Ryan and Brendon are still just standing there. Brendon looks uncertain.

They come back to the table. "Who are those guys?" Ryan asks, sliding down beside Spencer.

Spencer shrugs. Like there was a possibility he'd know more than Ryan or Brendon. He didn't really think Jon had other friends – he hadn't been in Vegas too long when they met him, and he never talks about anyone, at least when Spencer's around.

Jon comes back to the table, his arm around the blond guy's shoulders, and shouts introductions. Spencer can only half-hear, but they all have normal dude names he doesn't bother to remember. He's more concerned with the fact that they're clearly all like Jon, and not just a manly facial hair way. slayer senses don't just work for vampires, apparently; now that he knows what to look out for, he's pretty damn sure these are more werewolves. He doesn't really want to deal with this right now.

Even more concerning, though, is how Ryan's face keeps getting more blank, and how Brendon is clearly _trying_ to smile. He can't help but notice that a couple of them are giving him sort of weird, sidelong glances, and takes a moment to scowl at them. Spencer doesn't think his glares are nearly as effective as Bob's, but this one seems to do the trick.

He's not sure if Jon can tell how uncomfortable his boyfriends are – he's talking a lot, uncharacteristically fast, but he's in the middle of all these strangers. Spencer still can't hear what anyone is saying, and his own life is awkward enough without having to deal with his friends' awkwardness tonight. "I have to go," he yells into Ryan's ear. "I have to patrol, I'll talk to you tomorrow." Ryan looks a little betrayed, but shifts around so Spencer can get out. Spencer swallows down an uneasy wave of guilt -- he's so used to being that guy for Ryan, for being the Steadfast Backup and all, it's still a little bit weird to be trying to leave that role for Brendon, and sometimes Jon.

He doesn't realise till he's outside that Bob has followed him out. Considering that avoiding Bob was at least forty percent of the reason he was leaving, Spencer isn't too impressed. "I'm just going to patrol," he says. "You can go back in or whatever."

Bob makes a face. "Yeah, I really don't want in the middle of that," he says. "I'll come with you."

Spencer can feel himself frowning; Brendon would be laughing and calling him bitchface if he'd been there. "I don't need you," he says shortly.

"Yeah, I get that," Bob says evenly. "You don't have to talk to me, but you really shouldn't be patrolling alone when you're worked up, seriously."

Spencer glares a little more. He wants to argue more, he probably would if Bob was just his – whatever, the guy he's sleeping with, but Bob's also his Watcher, and listening to him is sort of in the job description. He does resolve not to admit that he'd stretched the truth a little about patrolling with the other guys the night before -- weeknights are generally okay, but after he'd given up on the whole Spy vs Spy secret identity schtick, Bob had become a frighteningly devout convert to 'the group that slays together doesn't develop an inconvenient sunlight-and-garlic allergy' school of thought.

"Fine," he bites off. "Come on."

* * *  
_10.50pm_

Ryan doesn't think he's quite the drama queen Spencer makes him out to be, but his birthday party is basically ruined. He considers pouting – Brendon definitely would be pouting if this were _his_ birthday; Brendon practically is anyway – but he knows it's an expression that sits oddly on his face, so he doesn't, just sits there stiffly as Jon is surrounded by strangers. Brendon is beside him, occasionally running his thumb over Ryan's hand under the table, but Brendon is upset too, and not really in a position to be comforting.

A couple of the guys -- the short one and the fairer guy _without_ the nose ring (Ryan couldn't exactly hear Jon's introductions, and, okay, sue him, it wasn't like he wanted to hear them, either) are trying to make small talk with him and Brendon, and it's nice that they're trying and all, in the back of his mind Ryan can admit and respect that, and their smiles seem genuine enough, they just also look... kind of confused. Which is basically how Ryan feels, and this was not how he planned this evening to go at all.

And then the guys all stand up – Jon stands up too, and leans over the table right into Ryan's space. "I'm really sorry, I have to go talk to them. It's, like, family stuff." He says "family" with a peculiar emphasis that makes Ryan pretty sure he's not talking about his parents. "I'll make it up to you later, I'll meet you back at your place, okay?" And then he leaves, and yeah, they're in public, but without a kiss or a hug or _anything_.

Brendon holds Ryan's hand in earnest. "Do you want to stay?" he asks into Ryan's ear.

"Not really," he replies. Even with Pete DJing, he's kind of over this scene for now. "Can we just head back to mine? Jon said he'd meet us."

They get back to Ryan's house fully two hours before Jon does. His dad is out, so they don't have to worry about even pretending to be anything they're not, and when he arrives they're watching an America's Next Top Model rerun, snuggled up on the couch. Ryan is resting his head on Brendon's chest and they're holding hands, but haven't done anything more than that – it's not like they haven't made out plenty of times, but Ryan feels weird about it now without Jon.

"Hey, I'm so sorry," he says, leaning into Ryan and looping his arm over to Brendon's shoulder. "Seriously, I just, I had to – I had no idea they were coming out here, I haven't seen any of them since I left Chicago."

"It's okay," Brendon says, even though they all know it kind of isn't. Brendon can't stand holding grudges, though. "It's – they're your friends?"

"They're my pack," Jon says.

There's a pause. "So what does that mean?" Ryan asks. He doesn't ask what it means for _them_, but the question is implicit all the same. And Jon doesn't look like he wants to answer.

"They're, like. Tom's my best friend, but they're all my family, they're more than family. I haven't seen them in months, but they're, like, the people I'm closest to in the world-" Jon cuts himself off.

Ryan is sure Brendon is wearing a hurt expression, but knows he can't look up at him without making this the sort of two-on-one fight he's been trying this whole time to avoid. He must look hurt too, because Jon says uncomfortably, "It's a werewolf thing."

Brendon shrugs off Jon's shoulder and eases his way out from under Ryan to stand. "I should get to bed, I have school in the morning." He grimaces.

"Oh," Jon says. "I was hoping – yeah, okay, just." He stands too, throwing an arm around Brendon's neck. His other hand gropes for Ryan's shoulder. "Ry, come here."

Ryan goes, mostly willingly. He's leaning into them when his cell phone rings.

* * *  
Monday  
* * *  
_1:16am_

"I still think we should have told him," Sean says after Jon drives away. "He deserves to know if his friend is mixed up in this."

"He might not be," Tom says. "Maybe he was there for something else –"

"Why would a dude who isn't entirely human be at a golf course in the middle of the night?" Max asks. "If he hasn't figured that part out –"

"I just think we need to know more," Tom cuts in. "If it really is directed at us – We should know for sure before we tell Jon anything."

His caution makes total sense to them all, and there's a wave of nods, consensus. Tom doesn't add anything else to that, but there's a little smile on his face that absolutely wasn't there before, and his packmates can all tell just how relieved he is to have found Jon safe and well. Happy, even, although probably they've made his life a little bit more difficult right now. Tom is inclined to be philosophical about that. Jonny can take care of himself, especially when it comes to a couple of normals.

"I can make a couple of calls," Max says, "see what we can turn up on the kid from the golf course. Spencer Smith, right?"

Tom nodded; he'd been paying very close attention to Jon's introductions. Max made a face -- Smith, seriously? Yeah, that was going to make his life difficult -- and took a mental note. Hopefully they'd be able to get a quick and off-the-record handle on what the kid was mixed up in, the sooner they could rule him out of whatever was going on out there, the sooner they could get Jon's help to get it all dealt with. If nothing else, the complete shock it had been for Jon to see them sort of implied that he hadn't been the one out swanning about the city like an moron and getting himself into trouble.

"So what do we _now_?" Al asks, nudging the other four in the direction of their rental car. That way they can head back to their hotel to grab cash and snacks -- they'd had a couple of drinks with Jon, which had also meant bar food, which meant salty, all of which meant he for one was ready to down at least a gallon of water to make up for it. It was awesome being pretty much incapable of drinking enough to get _drunk_-drunk, but it also got kind of expensive.

Sean shrugs, taking lead again -- it tended to happen more often than not, and usual Tom would tease him about being _old, old, so very old_ which would probably have been more effective if he wasn't barely two years younger himself -- and tossed the car keys to Max. "I think we stick with the basic plan. All the reported attacks have taken place around more wooded areas, either the unicorn's changed its MO in the last couple of years or it realised that even in Vegas it'd be pretty fucking conspicuous downtown."

Their initial plan had been to circle the more promising clubs in the early evening -- there were a only couple actually on ley lines, but mostly the touristy parts of Vegas were a sea of fucking emotional riptides as it was, and that wasn't even beginning to count the strip clubs, so that hadn't exactly ruled much out -- and then go for a run through some of the more likely areas they've identified that the unicorn might be lurking in; places where the locals would go to park up and fool around. Running into Jon like they had done had complicated some things, and made others easier. If nothing else, they had solid contact now. Maybe some allies who'd actually be useful for more than information or a hint on some lucky numbers.

"Oh good," Ryan says sotto voce, "more golf courses. Can we at least hunt some of the fucking squirrels this time?"

Sean mimed despair, his head in his hands. "Sure, sure. Just don't get treed by any of them."

Ryan looks insulted. "As if I would." Given that Sean's caught Ryan more than once chasing his own tail if he's bored enough, it's not actually outside the realm of possibility.

* * *  
_1:16am_

Spencer's breathing hard as he shakes the dust (ew) out of his hair. He may be strong, fast, trained, but it's still not necessarily easy or fun; slaying is definitely something that takes a lot of effort. He glances over at Bob, who's breathing pretty heavily himself and holding onto one of his wrists, rubbing it and wincing – Spencer knows they still bother him a lot of the time.

Bob drops his wrist when he looks back at Spencer. "That was –"

"Yeah," Spencer agrees. "Can we be done for the night?"

"I'll drive you home," Bob offers.

Spencer hesitates. "Can we maybe go to your place for a bit?"

Bob gives him a level look, considering. It's a reasonable thing to consider – they're not on the greatest terms at the moment, and Spencer knows how he gets when he's mad. He is still angry, or will be again when he comes down. It's just taken a backseat at the moment. Slaying tends to make other things seem a lot less important, at least for a bit.

"Sure," Bob says after a moment. "Come on."

They don't talk in the car. Neither of them are big on conversations for conversation's sake, and that's not what this is about. Spencer just doesn't want to have to go home alone, doesn't want Bob to be alone right now.

Things are a little awkward when they get to Bob's house. "Spence," Bob starts as he's holding the front door open. Spencer doesn't want to hear the rest, isn't ready for this talk yet, whichever one it's going to be. He cuts Bob off by shoving him up against the foyer wall – Bob's a lot bigger than he is, but Spencer's sparred with him a lot, knows he's stronger than Bob. He's breathless again, hands tightening against Bob's shoulders as he leans in to kiss him.

Bob doesn't wait to respond; his hands move to Spencer's hips as he kisses back fiercely. Spencer has a quick desire to bite down on Bob's tongue in his mouth – he suppresses it, and sucks on Bob's tongue instead. He snakes one hand down between their bodies to push under Bob's hoodie, under his t-shirt, running his fingers over Bob's stomach. Bob's breath hitches. He breaks away, sucks a kiss under Spencer's ear, and says "bedroom, bedroom," urgently.

"Yeah," Spencer agrees, and backs up far enough to pull his own shirt off. "Come on, hurry."

By the time they get to the bedroom, they've both kicked their shoes off and Bob has stripped out of his shirt as well. Spencer pushes Bob onto the bed and then clambers on himself, straddling Bob's thighs. He does give into the urge to bite Bob this time, nipping at his lip maybe a little too hard before kissing him.

Bob's hands are at Spencer's waistband, one toying with the button of his jeans, but they still and his mouth goes slack. Spencer frowns and pulls away. "What?"

Bob looks him in the eye. "I'm not sure we should do this right now."

Oh. This is the conversation Spencer didn't want to have. He pushes himself up, rolls away from Bob. "Okay," he says, looking away, sitting up. "Yeah, okay, I'll just –"

"No, I mean-" Bob grabs at Spencer's hand, pulls hard enough that Spencer is forced to look back at him. "I didn't mean you should go. You're still mad at me, and I don't think sex is going to help anything, but you don't have to go." Bob's eyes are wide open.

Spencer blinks a few times. Yeah, okay, he can see how aggressive sex probably won't make things better between them, especially if Bob feels strongly enough about it to stop. He could still leave, run home and jerk off and deal with the consequences later. But Spencer can admit, at least in his own head, he's always going to choose the Bob option over any of the choices without Bob, as long as it's available. "Okay," he says, lying down carefully beside Bob, trying to keep safe distance between their hips.

"I'll set the alarm," Bob murmurs. Spencer's not sure that will be necessary, is pretty sure he's too keyed up to sleep, but it doesn't take long for Bob's breathing to go deep and steady. Spencer doesn't remember anything after that.

* * *  
_7.08am_

Spencer's gotten really good at sneaking into his house (and out of it, for what it's worth), but he knows he's busted because his mom's sitting in the kitchen, wearing the same clothes she'd been wearing the day before. "Um," he says, standing in the doorway. "Hey?"

"Hey, Spencer," Ginger says. She sounds tired. She probably is tired. "Where've you been?"

"I told you, I stayed over at Ryan's–"

"Yeah, try again," she says flatly. "And don't bother saying you were at Brendon's, because he was over at Ryan's when I called."

_Fuck._ Spencer runs over his options in his head. He can try saying he was at Brent's, but his mom knows Brent's parents never let anyone sleep over on school nights, and anyway, why would he have lied about it? He could try saying Trevor's, but Ginger knows they haven't really been talking much lately – Spencer doesn't do a lot of socializing, he's been kept pretty busy between slaying and school and the band – he doesn't really have any other believable friends –

"Spencer," Ginger breaks in. "Just tell me and we'll deal with it. Just – you've been so secretive lately, and I've been up all night trying to figure out why, and you don't even know – are you in a gang? Is it drugs? Is it – I don't even know what it could be, please, just _tell_ me –" and she sounds helpless, like she's about to cry, and Spencer will never forgive himself if he makes his mom cry.

"There's this guy," he blurts out, and – oh, god, that was so not how he intended to come out to his mom, and maybe it's not everything, but it actually feels really good to tell the truth after months of sneaking around and lying.

Ginger bites her lip, and is very quiet for a moment. "What kind of guy?" she asks carefully. Spencer can practically see her trying not to jump to conclusions.

"Like." He blushes, gives in and sits down across the table from her. "Um. Like my boyfriend."

There's another minute that is so, so still and quiet that Spencer can't help fidgeting in his seat. "Okay," Ginger says slowly. "What's his name?"

"Bob," Spencer says, and Ginger raises an eyebrow. "No, really," he adds, because… yeah, he can see where she's coming from. "You can ask Ryan."

"How long have you guys been… together?"

Spencer tries desperately not to think of other ways she could have ended that sentence. "About. Uh. Three months?" Sort of.

"And in that time, why haven't you – told me? Or brought him around? Or _mentioned_ him; Spencer, you have to know – it doesn't matter, not to me or your father, you have to know we love you no matter what—"

"I know," he mutters, because… he sort of knew. Knowing they'd still love him didn't preclude a freakout, though. "It's just… he's sort of older," and fuck. He's going to have to figure out a way to explain how they met without touching on the slaying or that fact that Bob's a _teacher_, Christ.

"Okay," Ginger says. "Okay. You have twenty minutes to get ready for school, I'll drive you. I expect you home this evening to have a conversation with me and your father about this. No excuses, Spencer James."

_Fuck_.

 

* * *  
_11.20am_

School is kind of predictably awful, considering Spencer got very little sleep even for a slayer and then followed it up with one of the most stressful conversations of his life – even worse than the time some random dude stopped him in the street and told him he had a destiny.

After calculus, English, and history, Spencer's already pretty much had it. He skips study hall to go hide in a little-used stairwell, sitting on the floor and leaning up against the doorframe so he'll know if anyone comes in. He pulls out his cell to call... Spencer stares at the phone a minute. Even if he and Bob weren't currently all kinds of weird, Spencer isn't sure he could go to him with this just now. And, well, Ryan and Brendon were both right out for a conversation about _Spencer's_ parents' impending gay freakout; things would be a lot worse if either of them had accidentally come out.

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Spencer finally hits send on Jon's number. "What's up?" Jon answers sleepily – Jon always sounds kind of sleepy midday, and Spencer doesn't know if it's a nocturnal werewolf thing or just a Jon thing.

"I came out to my mom," Spencer blurts out, hissing.

There's a moment of silence. "Uh," Jon says, sounding uncharacteristically thrown. "Do you want me to – Ryan's not here, but I could..." He sort of trails off.

"No," Spencer says. "I can't – Ryan doesn't – I can't talk to him about this yet."

"Okay, I get that," Jon says slowly. "Do you _want_ to talk about it?"

Spencer gets Jon's hesitation; they are friends, but not exactly confidantes. Jon seems like the right kind of guy for it, but Spencer likes to play things close to the chest. "I got home this morning and my mom was waiting up all night, I guess. Apparently she, like. Got suspicious. Apparently I'm not as good at sneaking in as I thought. And I just – I figured it was better to tell her about Bob than about, like, all the rest of it."

"Yeah, she kept calling Ryan last night wanting to talk to you. She wouldn't stop, so. Yeah."

"Oh." That... sounds like his mom, yeah.

"Ryan called you," Jon adds.

Spencer hasn't listened to his nine new voicemails. It didn't exactly seem like any of them would be likely to improve his day, and he's not into masochism. Denial is a much better coping strategy, he figures. "Okay," he says.

"Hey, did she – how'd she take it?" Jon asks.

"Um. Fine? Sort of? She's mad at me, but she says it's 'cause I lied to her? I don't know, I have to talk to her and my dad about it tonight. I need to keep the slaying out of it – hey!" The door at Spencer's back opens, hitting him hard.

"Oh!" a girl cries, slipping into the stairwell. Spencer reflexively shuts his phone. "Sorry," she says. She's vaguely familiar, angular and pretty. Spencer thinks she's a junior.

"It's okay," he says. "I was just..."

"You're Spencer, right?" she asks. "I'm Cassadee Pope."

"Yeah. Nice to meet you. I–"

"I'm skipping Spanish," she announces over top of him. "I hate Spanish, but my parents make me take it. You're in a band, right? I've seen you guys play a couple times."

Spencer's band has played exactly three gigs ever. Most nights, they're kind of busy. "That's cool," he says. "Hey, I should-"

"Do you have lunch next period?" Cassadee asks. "You should have lunch with me. My friends are all lame."

That's... weirdly tempting. After a summer of Bob and slaying and ignoring most normal people, Spencer doesn't really have a lot of friends at school. The idea of hanging out with someone who doesn't know about slaying, doesn't know about any of what's going on with Bob, just wants to hang out with _him_ is really pretty appealing. Spencer hasn't had a lot of the typical high school experience the past few months. And she seems nice enough; the constant interrupting is actually charming, not as annoying as Spencer thinks he should find it. "Sure," he says.

Cassadee sits on the ground, so Spencer sits back down too. "My friends and I were thinking about starting a band," she says. Spencer's phone vibrates. He ignores it.

* * *  
_6.32pm_

He really can't put this off any longer -- shouldn't have left it this late after Mikey had called -- so Bob steels himself, and then grabs his phone, drops onto the end of his bed (sitting cross-legged automatically, stretching just because) and finds Brian's name in his contacts list.

He hasn't been looking forward to this conversation at all, mostly because he's pretty sure it's going to be about five percent shock and eighty five percent mocking of his personal life choices. (The other ten percent, as always, is going to be Brian trying to persuade him to give up his -- okay, 'calling' sounds stupid, but it kind of is. Stupid family tradition and stupid world that needs saving every five minutes, honestly. Bob just can't turn his back on that -- and come back to work for the guys again. Bob's never going to say yes, but Brian's never stopped trying.) But the alternative is trying to have this conversation in person, and since Spencer at least is probably going to be there for that, he'd really rather not.

If nothing else, left in ignorance Brian's probably going to be prone to... doing something Bob is going to regret. If only because he is well aware that Spencer looks like an average seventeen year old boy but instead has the cunning and guile as well as sheer vicious killing power of your average black panther, and Bob gets beaten up enough in the line of duty. He doesn't need a ticked-off boyfriend taking that out on him in sparring practice as well. Correction: a _more_ ticked-off boyfriend, anyway. Whoever said honesty was the best policy was a complete asshole.

(Also part of Bob curls up and dies every time he has to use the word "boyfriend" to describe Spencer, but seriously, what else is he going to call him? Without sounding like a total lech, at any rate.)

"Bob!" Brian answers cheerfully, fucking lazy-ass punks who have working caller ID on their phones. "What's up? Demons infesting the internet again? Or did you want to come back and work a real job with us? The guys would flip, you know they've missed you."

"Fuck you too," Bob says cheerfully, "I have a real job. If you wanna grade thirty teenagers on musical theory please, come over here any time and be my guest."

Which, on reflection, was possibly not the best way to word that.

"Well, you know we're in town next week," Brian says, not at all subtly dangling the offer, and even though- even with Spencer, the years of conditioning kick in with a little tempted curl of heat in his stomach, because Brian, even though they realised fast it was never going to work long-term, Brian is- so not what he needs any more, and he puts that thought way back down in the basement where it belongs and keeps talking.

"Yeah, I know. Mikey called and spouted off a bunch of stuff I don't understand and he won't remember. My slayer and I are meant to be meeting up with you guys to try and figure out what the hell's been going on lately, I kind of took it as read."

"Yeaaaah," Brian says slowly. "There's been... some weird shit going on, lately. I mean, fuck, it's a festival tour on the road, there's always weird shit going on, you know how it is. I'll send you an email with what we know about, at least. Some stuff that's gotten stolen, a couple people waking up after getting beaten up and not remembering what happened. Most of that's probably the booze, of course, but. Didn't realise it was much more serious than that, yet, but Mikey's probably picking up on something the rest of us have missed. I'll look into things a bit more and let you know when I see you, yeah?"

"And call me if anything comes up before then?" Bob prompts automatically, not like Brian _wouldn't_, although he is maybe prone to thinking he can solve everything himself at times. Bob's familiar with the attitude.

"Yeah, yeah," Brian says dismissively. "So, Thursday. I was going to leave the passes at the door like always. That okay? How many do you need, just two?"

"Uh, five, actually," Bob says, and ignores Brian's snort. He's never taken advantage, it's not like he's going to start now. "And at the door's fine," he adds, and chews on his lip ring. This is clearly the opening he should be taking -- shouldn't be leaving Brian with the wrong impression any longer, but he just doesn't know how to say it.

And then it turns out he doesn't have to, because Brian, clearly half-distracted, asks. Bob can picture him, with an immediacy that does hit him right in the chest, and forget all the sex-tinged nostalgia and everything, fuck, he misses Brian and the guys, and Brian is so obviously slumped at his desk, coffee in hand, scowling at something or other and only half-listening to Bob now but keeping up his end of the conversation anyway. It's something he's perfected with record execs over the years and he likes to do it to Bob just to piss him off.

Brian asks. Just up and says, "so, how is this slayer of yours working out, anyway? She- he? He's the first one you've had, right?" and Bob says "ow, fuck " because he'd bit right down on his lip at that, because- shit.

"He's great," Bob tries to sound cool and not too-involved and stupidly proud, and also like he's not about to have three-quarters of a heart attack over Brian's choice of words. "He's smart and fast, and he's handling the shift in worldview far better than I was expecting. We've taken out a couple of sand dragons and knocked out a little bite-and-run op some of the Family-connected vamps were running downtown already, actually. He's... he's good. We've actually got quite the little team out here these days, I think you're gonna be surprised." Bob realises, abruptly, that he's babbling, and also that Brian of all people is not going to be one to let that go without comment.

"Oh my god," Brian says, voice rising a little, and Bob slumps, head falling into his hands as he jams the phone between his ear and his shoulder and waits to take the hit. "Oh my god, Bob Bryar, you totally have a crush on him."

"Um," Bob objects feebly, because Jesus Christ, he's twenty three, he does not get 'crushes' on people. "Fuck you, I do not," he says, and because apparently he is, in fact, a complete coward, adds, "did I tell you one of his friends -- their friends, actually, he's wound up in this garage band they have going, they're not bad, actually -- is a werewolf? It's pretty handy, actually-" but Brian is using the skills gained from years of herding Way brothers in particular and musicians in general and just runs roughshod right over that protest.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Bob? He's a slayer, and he plays in a band, and you have got it _so bad_ for him. Isn't that, like, against some kind of code in the manual, at least? Lusting after the hot young thing you're meant to be training up against the forces of darkness?"

"Oh, fuck you," Bob repeats, with a lot more fervour this time, "I can't believe you even read that thing. It's a relic. It's totally outdated these days, no one trains by the manual any more."

"And wow, that's an argument that's going to impress people," Brian counters, sounding far too amused for Bob's liking. "So does this hot young thing have a name? Also, I thought slayers were always girls. You did say 'he', right?" Bob just groans and tries to will himself to sink into the mattress and oblivion.

"What instrument does he play?" Brian asks, frighteningly innocent-sounding, and fuck, he's merciless, he could give demons lessons in cruel and unusual punishment, why did Bob think this was a good idea? "Wait, let me guess," Brian continues, and seriously, if he keeps this up any longer Bob is sending him a bill, because no one should get this much entertainment out of anything without having had to buy tickets, for fuckssake, "he's a drummer, right? You always have had a type."

"Jesus, Brian," Bob manages to get out, "I do not have a type. And I thought he was hot before I caught him looking at my kit like he wasn't sure whether he wanted to stare at it and drool or take it out back and-" Bob is momentarily distracted by a mental image of Spencer playing his kit, and shit, why hasn't he offered yet? Spencer should know he can ask to play it, shouldn't he? Surely that should've been self-evident even before they'd... started dating. Hooked up. Whatever.

"_So_ bad," Brian says, not even bothering to hide the snicker as he goes on to ask, "so what've you been doing to keep your hands off him, then?" and Bob feels a cold flush of shame creep back up his spine, because, god, seriously, there's no way he's giving Spencer up now, but sometimes he really does think he must've been insane to agree to starting whatever it is between them. Even if things are kind of iffy between the two of them right now, it's still one of the best things that's ever happened to him.

"Um," he says again, and Brian is abruptly far more present and far more serious when he replies to that.

"What's 'um', Bob?" and ugh, god, Bob was always meant to be the responsible one, he's not used to meekly just taking whatever's about to be coming at him.

"I wanted to warn you," he says, making faces because god, he sounds like an idiot, a prize fucking idiot, "before we see you, not to- I mean, we can't, you're- I'm looking forward to seeing you, Brian, and I miss the hell out of you, but I'm not- I am seeing someone."

"Your slayer," Brian says flatly, and Bob's chest is kind of tight as he corrects "Spencer, yeah."

Brian gives a low whistle. "You're really serious about this," he asks, sounding reluctant.

"I'm really serious about him," Bob says, and then tries to fold himself in half to sink further down in the bed, because fuck, the cliche.

"He's seventeen, Bob," Brian says, and there is so much warning in that, "do you- does he even know what he's doing with you? You know how this looks. If you were anyone else..."

"I know," Bob says, muffled where his face is kind of jammed up into his own knee, "I know, I feel like such an idiot, but, Brian, fuck, when you meet him- he's not a seventeen year old kid. Not really. Not any more."

"So what you're saying," and Brian's loosened up a bit now, Bob can hear it, and he dares to take a deep breath, "is that you don't want me to jump on you the second you get backstage and shove my hands down your pants in front of your jailbait boyfriend."

"Yes, exactly," Bob says blandly, refusing to bite any more, "so thanks, see you Thursday, goodnight, Brian," and he hangs up.

There's about ten seconds and then Bob's phone rings with an incoming call. Fucking Backstreet Boys, seriously, this is the last time he lets Brendon use his phone after he's 'forgotten' his for a stakeout. He should've realised it was an elaborate plot to fuck with his ringtones again. Bob isn't sure whether he should be proud or ashamed that he can spot and destroy otherworldly malevolence from a block away but teenage boys get the better of him on a semi-regular basis, or whether that's just Brendon's special magic.

"Bryar," he answers, although he has a fairly good idea who it is anyway.

"Don't hang up on me, fucker," Brian says cheerfully, "I had one more thing to say."

"Shoot," Bob says wearily, and braces himself. Although it could be business. You never know, sometimes.

"Does your phone do this?" Brian asks, laughing like an jackass, and Bob's about to ask "What?" when he hears the dial tone. Asshole called him back just to hang up on him. Bob's totally going to have to have his revenge. After he makes sure they deal with whatever supernatural nasty has apparently been following his friends' band around the country, of course.

* * *   
_6:35pm_

Spencer defiantly goes to band practice after school (and it was so, so hard not to say anything to Ryan; Spencer hadn't gotten so many weird looks since the weirdness after he first found out about the slayer thing), even though his parents would probably have preferred otherwise. They're sitting on the couch in the living room when he gets home, television on low volume, his sisters shuttled off to a friend's house. His mom looks better than she did in the morning, at least, but his dad looks pretty pissed. "Sit down," Jeff says, reaching out to the remote to switch the tv off. "We're going to talk about this, and you're going to answer all of our questions."

"And we'll know if you lie," Ginger breaks in, impressively calm. Spencer doesn't doubt it.

"Fine," Spencer grits out, taking a seat on the chair opposite them. As much as he knows he deserves this talk, it's not like _any_ of them are going to enjoy it.

"What's his name?" Jeff asks.

"Bob," Spencer says tersely. And then, reconsidering his belligerent tone and feeling like he should maybe volunteer some information, "he's a drummer. He knows a friend of Ryan's," which is technically true, and will hopefully keep his parents from asking how they met.

"How old is he?" Ginger asks, sounding worn around the edges, and that's the other question Spencer didn't want to answer.

"Twenty-three," Spencer mutters.

"Excuse me?" Jeff explodes. "Twenty-_three_?" Spencer cringes. "Does he know how old you are?" Jeff adds, quietly and dangerously.

"Yes!" Spencer cries. He doesn't know if it's the answer his dad is looking for – he's not sure if it'd be worse for them to think he lied about his age than for them to think his boyfriend is, like, into teenage boys or something, gross – but it's the truth.

"Are you having sex?" Ginger asks, sounding for all the world like she doesn't want to hear the answer.

"God, Mom," Spencer says, flushing – he doesn't often blush, but seriously.

"Answer the question," Jeff snaps.

"Yes," Spencer says in a low voice.

"Are you being safe?" Ginger asks, even more strained than before.

"Yes." Spencer blushes even hotter.

"Don't just say that because it's what we want to hear," Jeff says warningly.

"Spence," his mom says gently, changing tacks, "you know this looks bad. And if you hadn't, you'd have told us already. We just – we need to know you're safe and not being taken advantage of."

"Ha, yeah, no," Spencer says, stung by the unjustness to Bob if nothing else. "He's never pushed me, at all," he tries to explain, and fuck this is so hard, and Spencer would rather be anywhere else, even trapped in a nest of vamps than be having this conversation. "I made the first move, because he was never going to. And it's got nothing to do with my age, and I'm going to be eighteen in like a week anyway–"

"And you'll probably still be grounded by your _next_ birthday," Ginger says, but there's a tiny flicker of humour there now, which wasn't before.

Spencer rolls his eyes, but it's not like he couldn't have predicted they'd say that. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you guys about him before," and he is, because – well, being grounded is going to make patrolling a little tricky, but this has gone much better than he would have predicted. "But please don't – " He bites his lip. "Please don't tell me I can't see him any more. He's important to me." That doesn't come close to it.

His parents exchange a psychic look. Spencer's kind of jealous. "We need to meet him," Ginger says. "Invite him over for dinner this week, and then we'll talk about you being grounded."

Spencer can feel his eyes widen involuntarily. That is... a frightening prospect. "Um," he says. "What if he can't? What if he doesn't want to?"

His mom smiles, a little sadly, but she looks friendlier. "Spence, if he's important to you, you should be important to him. Important enough to come for dinner one night. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yeah. Okay." He thinks he does. And, okay, he knows he's important to Bob, and as much as it seems like it sometimes, he's pretty sure it's not just the slayer thing. "Can I go call him?"

* * *  
_7.17pm_

Spencer's lying on his bed, toying with his cell phone. He knows what he has to do, he's just... sort of nervous about it. Calling Bob shouldn't be this weird. But things between them are messed up, and in a way that's nothing like the awkwardness before they were sure where they stood with each other. Spencer hasn't exactly had all that much relationship experience as it is, and he's never actually disagreed with Bob on more than superficial or "no, I think he went _that_ way" grounds before. It's seriously disconcerting, and he isn't sure of his footing at all under these circumstances. Spencer's still mad that Bob's been keeping secrets from him, but – and Spencer doesn't really know how this works, because it's the most fucking illogical thing in the world and he's not a fan – he still wants to be around Bob, pretty much all the time, anyway. It's uncomfortable, like he's being pulled in different directions, or something.

It takes some deep, yogic breaths and some psyching himself up for it, but Spencer finally manages to man up and call.

"Hello?" Bob says. He sounds uncertain. Spencer's a little glad; he knows he's the most inexperienced one in the relationship, or whatever it is, but he's unsettled and would be embarrassed if Bob was completely zen.

"Hey," Spencer says. He doesn't know where to start. "I don't think I can patrol tonight, I'm grounded."

"Shit, why?"

"I..." Another deep breath. "My mom was waiting up when I got home this morning. She wanted to know where I'd been, so I told her I was at my boyfriend's." It's out there. Spencer can feel himself blushing fucking again, and is deeply grateful he's alone.

There's a loud clunking sound, a muffled curse. "Bob?" Spencer asks.

"Sorry, sorry," Bob says after a second.

"What happened?"

"I dropped the phone."

Spencer swallows a chuckle; it's not really the right time, and he thinks it might be hysteria more than actual mirth. "I didn't know what else to say, I just thought..." He doesn't know what he thought. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay." The reaction is quick but, knowing Bob, probably not knee-jerk. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Spencer says. "My parents are pissed that I lied, and pissed I've been staying out, and pissed about how old you are, but... it could be a lot worse."

"I... can't really blame them for any of that," Bob says apologetically. "How long are you grounded for?"

"As long as they want," Spencer mutters. "But, oh. They want to meet you. They want you to come over for dinner tomorrow."

Another pause. "Is that a good idea?" Bob asks.

"Um." Possibly not. Spencer's parents are already predisposed not to like Bob, it's not going to help that he's big and looks kind of stern and has a _lip ring_, fuck. But. "It's probably the only way they're ever going to let me out again," he explains.

"Okay," Bob says. "Yeah, I will. What time should I be there?"

* * *  
_9.00pm_

Brendon's computer curfew is actually ten, so he's about ready to pull his own hair out when it takes him until almost nine to get all his homework done and out of the way. None of it's exactly his best work ever -- probably he could be making better than a B average, but it keeps his parents off his back, which is all he really asks for out of school these days.

He boots up the bare basics machine they've got as a desktop for the kids, and drums his fingers impatiently on the keyboard while he waits for the chat programme to load.

Ryan had texted him a couple hours ago and they'd decided to talk online -- it was easier than trying to coordinate texts between three people, not to mention cheaper. And so far, it was looking like Brendon had the computer room to himself, which was not exactly a given. He opens up solitaire in another window and an innocuous Google search that could possibly be for his history assignment as well. He's totally prepared if someone walks in at a bad moment, which they would, and probably any of his sisters would assume he's looking at whatever porn gets around the filters on the firewall or something, but that has to be better than _knowing_ he's talking to his boyfriends, plural. Providing he still has two at the end of this conversation. Brendon makes a face, fully aware of how ridiculous he looks and goes back to dragging cards across his screen without paying much attention, waiting until he hears the ding that means Ryan's signed on.

He and Ryan kill five minutes talking meaningless small talk about their day -- Ryan's English classes and how annoying it is to have to figure out how to navigate a new campus, and then listen to people who are wrong and stupid talking about important literature; Brendon laughs and makes totally ironic heart eyes at Ryan in response, and for a couple of minutes everything just feels normal.

Then there's a second chime and Jon's signed on as well, home from his late shift at the coffee house, and Brendon has to remind himself firmly that he's too grown up to chew on his nails now.

Even Jon's greeting seems subdued, which is a no mean feat for words on a computer screen. Brendon hates having his stomach all knotted up like this, he just wants to know where the hell they all stand. He'd love to put headphones on -- there's noise coming from almost every other part of the house, and it's making him twitch -- but he can't take the risk of anyone walking in without noticing. And they can't even stall as much as Brendon would like, because he's got -- he checks the clock in the corner of the browser window -- about forty minutes before people start yelling at him to go to bed.

"We need to talk about this," Brendon types, "cos that was a shitty thing to drop on us, Jon," and then sits back to wait. He wishes he was better at this kind of thing.

Ryan doesn't say anything at all, and it's at least a minute before Jon replies, either; Brendon's starting to kind of zone out to the blinking cursor, anything to avoid having to seriously consider Jon leaving them. He's pretty sure he loves Ryan, but he's also sure they're both in love with Jon, too, and he's not sure if the two of them work without him any more. It's not anything Brendon wants to find out for real.

"i can explain," Jon says and Ryan doesn't even make fun of him for sounding like a refugee from a crappy made-for-TV movie (Ryan would also make fun of Brendon and point out that was redundant, but whatever), which is another piece of evidence for how crappy everything is right now. Brendon should not be feeling like this in a week where he's theoretically getting to meet rock stars, for fuckssake.

Brendon can just imagine Jon, curled up on the couch with his ancient laptop, feet tangled up in the ethernet cord, frowning while he tries to think of- the best way to let them down gently? To make Ryan smile and feel better? To tell them why he wouldn't leave to go back to Chicago, where he's from and the people who are most important to him live, fuck.

Brendon throws caution to the winds and starts gnawing at the rough edge of the nail on his index finger.

Jon types for quite some time, either he's deleting every third word (totally possible, Brendon thinks) or he's actually going to give them more details finally than "I just kind of needed to leave, you know?" Brendon is all for people getting to find themselves and having secrets, it's just sometimes that seems to completely contradict everything he's ever expected about having a boyfriend. Or dating anyone, for that matter.

He doesn't actually say much about Chicago, still, but it doesn't feel like it's something he can't tell them because they're regular ol' variety human, more that it's something he doesn't think about much and can't put into words anyway. He just says, again, that he'd been feeling like he didn't fit there for a long time, something drawing him west, "Wanderlust", Ryan puts in, and obviously Brendon can't tell _for sure_ over the internet, but he thinks maybe Ryan is starting to thaw, at least.

Brendon tucks his feet up on the chair, leaning against the computer desk with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his hands. He has to free up one hand to scroll down every now and then, but it's more comfortable than sitting normally, and he's less likely to accidently kick anything or make noise. He's watching the clock with increasing worry, now, he's only got twenty more minutes for sure and after that he's going to have to be seriously careful. Especially if he wants to be allowed out on a school night for the concert.

He thinks Jon's watching the time as well -- all three of them know Brendon's schedule inside out by now -- because he interrupts himself in the middle of an explanation of just why his old pack are still important to him to get back to the part that actually freaks Brendon out the most. "i'm not going anywhere," Jon promises, and Brendon's heart is pounding in his chest like Spencer's on a tear with his drums in there. "i'm not, i'm NOT, and i'm so so sorry this happened on your bday, ry,its not at all what i planned."

"You looked happier to see them than us," Ryan types at last and Jon's reply is almost instantaneous, apologetic and, Brendon thinks, maybe a little abashed too. "i'd really thought i was imagining it. it made me kinda stupid, you know? always happy to see you," and then he'd added a string of smileyfaces which made Brendon roll his eyes, but also kind of want to hug Jon as well.

And, "tom's my best friend, i just didnt know they'd be here, and- imagine seeing spencer for the first time in almost a year, ry, i just didnt think."

"So you're still happy- being what we are?" Brendon asks, daringly, because he's still not entirely sure what they are, but it sounds like 'not finished' is at least part of the answer.

 

"fuck yea." Jon says, and then Ryan adds "You're kind of a dumb boyfriend sometimes Jon Walker" and Jon replies "yeah. put up w me anyway?" and Ryan says "Bring me cake?" and god, Ryan is _easy_, and Jon and Brendon actually had plans to get him a cake already anyway; Ryan's weakness for red velvet cake is not only well known but sponsored by Spencer's mom, who is also planning to get Ryan a cake, Brendon knows. "you bet" Jon says, with another smileyface, and "ok bden?"

"I'm good," Brendon types, and then reconsiders. "we are good, right?"

"I Think we are," Ryan replies, and then adds "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah? Jon can kiss and make up then."

Jon starts to say something after that, something that looks like it's starting out dirty and going to get filthier as he goes, but Brendon can hear a familiar tread on the stairs, and he's got approximately two minutes left as it is, so he just types "g2g &lt;3" and hits the x on the chat window. By the time his mom comes in to tap her watch meaningfully, he's got a completely innocuous cartoon open on youtube.

He shuts the computer down without argument and straightens up his room a little before curling up in bed with the lights out. He hears his mom open the door and put her head in to look; with only a little effort he stops himself from tensing up and just lies there with his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep already.

He hears the hall light go out not much later, and the blinking lights on his alarm say that it's almost eleven. Given the hours they've all been keeping over the past few months it doesn't actually feel all that late, which is good, because Brendon has to be up at the regular time for school tomorrow morning, but he wants to wait up until it's Ryan's actual birthday. Because maybe Ryan's party thing didn't precisely go to plan, but if Brendon has anything to say about it, the day itself is going to be a lot better.

Brendon folds his arms behind his head and looks up at the glow in the dark stars on his ceiling, just thinking while the clock ticks off minute after minute. Things feel a little more settled with Jon now, at least -- Brendon's not dumb enough to expect everything to be perfect, now, but that hollow sick feeling has almost entirely gone, and now he can actually indulge in a little pleasant contemplation of dinner tomorrow. Well, Jon had offered to make the dinner, Ryan had said that he wouldn't have any difficulty being there (Brendon and Jon both translated that without any trouble), and Brendon doesn't think it takes a genius to figure that if Jon's said dinner's at six and Brendon doesn't have to be home till ten, then Ryan's going to be getting more than just cake for dessert.

That thought's just starting to get good and interesting when the alarm on his phone goes off -- 11.57 -- buzzing under his pillow. He sits up, pulls a hoodie and pajama pants on, shoves the window open and climbs out with the the ease of much practice. He only bothers getting two houses away before leaning back against a palm by the sidewalk, flipping his phone open to wait until it ticks over from 12.00 to 12.01 and then dialling Ryan's voicemail -- so Brendon's still up, he's not going to be the asshole who deprives Ryan of his sleep.

He sings happy birthday, kind of low and dirty (he can't help it; he was just thinking about kissing Ryan, about Jon's hands on Ryan's pale skin, there's a pretty predictable reaction that goes along with those kind of thoughts), and then because he figures he's still got a minute or two on the voicemail, he tags on the last section of Blackbird; it's not his favourite Beatles to sing, but Ryan is sort of ridiculously attached, and it works without accompaniment, at least.

* * *  
Tuesday  
* * *  
_12.01am_

Ryan's phone buzzes with a text message; it's Jon, wishing him a very happy 'proper' birthday, and telling him to check his email when he wakes up. He's left a bunch of Xs and Os after that, and Ryan feels unaccountably warmed by that, by Jon being his (usual, Ryan had always thought, until this week, but maybe it is a little unfair to expect Jon to be perfect all the time- he's certainly no saint himself) considerate, thoughtful self. Jon's maybe not given to the big gesture with quite the same enthusiasm as Brendon, but he likes to show his feelings in a lot of small ways.

He's just flipping his phone shut, amused that Jon thinks he'd have been asleep already -- he and Spencer always stay up to see the beginnings of their birthdays, they've been doing it since they were old enough to successfully fool Spencer's mom into thinking they were asleep without giving the game away by giggling -- and then it vibrates again; something that's gone straight to his voicemail.

Ryan sneaks downstairs, perfectly soundless, and boots the computer up again, grinning helplessly as he listens to Brendon sing for him. He maybe listens to the voicemail three times in a row and then saves it, but that's between him and Sprint, and none of anyone else's business. He and Jon hadn't lingered in the chat after Brendon had signed off so abruptly -- it's something they haven't actually talked about yet, but they all feel a little bit awkward in twos, and it hadn't seemed fair to continue what was a serious and relatively important discussion without him.

His email blinks at him; a couple of new messages just in the time since he'd signed off an hour ago. There's a couple of LJ comments, the usual spam, an e-card from someone he doesn't know all that well, and an email with attachment from Jon. He deletes the spam unopened, and then methodically reads the comments, and the other card first. It's not exactly saving the best for last, it's- okay, it really is. He wants to ride the anticipation, not know for a little bit longer, but once he's cleared out the rest of his inbox, he opens up Jon's email. It's short and sweet, nothing over the top, just- very Jon. He knows there's a stupid smile on his face, and it just gets bigger when he opens the zipped folder attached at the end.

There's a picture of him and Spencer, Ryan's arm slung loosely around Spencer's shoulders as he tries to scowl at Jon through a rueful smile. It's a really good candid -- Ryan has a fair amount of pictures with Spencer, but not many from more recently, and none that Jon has taken, especially not with his good camera that he doesn't dare bring out too often, not given the frequency with which they wind up caught up in some kind of slayer business that tends to involve property damage and fucking up perfectly good clothing, let alone fragile personal belongings.

The second picture is much lower quality, camera-phone fuzzy, and Ryan recognises it after a second as one from Spencer's phone; Brendon and Ryan chasing Jon -- still on two feet and wearing jeans, if not his shirt -- around the cemetery, arms outstretched in their best zombie impressions. It had been a really quiet week, and they wound up laughing themselves sick, making up ridiculous songs about needing "braaaaaaaaaains, brains, sweet morsels of braaaaaaaaains," and what Brendon claimed would be their Top 40 hit, "Brain bits, brain bits, brain bits RULE!" Bob claimed they'd made enough noise to scare off _actual_ zombies, but hadn't done more than laugh at them himself. Ryan saves both pictures to his pics folder, and then logs off again. Jon's email had promised hard copies to follow, so he didn't actually need to try and print them himself, and even if his first class isn't until eleven, it'd be nice to actually get to sleep long and late for a change.

 

* * *  
_10.20am_

Ryan has another message on his voicemail when he wakes up; Spencer this time. Spencer sounds tired, which is normal, and... something else. He's probably still all pissy about Bob. Right now, Ryan can't entirely blame him. It's not that he doesn't believe Jon, it's just... the past seems to be coming back to haunt them all at the moment. Spencer wishes him a happy birthday, bitches him out for having the nerve to be two years older than him right now and not having to be getting up early for school. He doesn't sing -- Spencer never sings, not if he can't hide his voice under someone else's, which Ryan thinks is a pity, since Spencer's voice isn't bad -- but he does pause right before hanging up and adds, "oh, and by the way, Ry? Mom wants you over for dinner this week. She asked what you'd want for a present, and so there's a nice shiny set of GHD straighteners waiting for you over here. I even talked her out of the pink ones."

Ryan can't help himself, he grins stupidly for a minute, and then makes a face, because it's belatedly dawned on him that he's going to be copping even more harrassment from Spencer's sisters about that -- their unofficial adoption of him as a second brother also means that they feel bound to tease him just as much as they do their actual brother, and when they get started, they're _merciless_.

He grins again, tosses his textbooks into his bag, and heads out the door for his classes. Looks like maybe today isn't going to suck.

* * *  
_5.58pm_

Bob rings the doorbell exactly on time. Spencer isn't surprised. He's been sitting in the living room, tapping out a rhythm on one thigh, for the past ten minutes. He basically leaps up when he hears the chime, runs to the door before anyone else can get to it – his parents are in the kitchen, ostensibly making the spaghetti but really just talking in low voices, and his sisters are upstairs.

"Hey," Spencer says kind of awkwardly when he's opened the door.

Bob smiles at him, same as always. He's holding a bouquet of flowers in reds and yellows. "Hey," he says back, and leans down a little to kiss Spencer on the cheek. His expression changes when he straightens, eyes a little wide and focused behind Spencer, who glances over his shoulder. His mom is standing there, looking weirdly neutral, with arched eyebrows.

"Mrs. Smith," Bob says. He sounds pretty composed, Spencer's sort of impressed. Bob extends the hand holding the flowers. "I'm Bob Bryar, it's nice to finally meet you. I brought these for you."

"Call me Ginger. Thank you," she adds, taking the flowers from him. "I'm glad to meet you as well."

"Come on," Spencer mutters, intending to show Bob into the living room.

Before he can turn, Bob reaches out for his hand. Spencer looks up at him, and can't stop himself from smiling. When he looks back at his mother, her face looks normal again, nicer than Spencer thought he had any right to expect. "I'll just put these in some water," she says.

Spencer sits next to Bob on the couch, dropping his hand but making sure they're close enough that they _could_ touch. "You okay?" he asks, even though he thinks Bob is probably doing the best out of anyone. Before Bob can answer, Spencer's dad comes into the room.

Bob stands, strides over and extends his hand. "Bob Bryar, sir. It's good to meet you."

"Jeff Smith." He shakes Bob's hand, but – well, his expression isn't weird or neutral; Spencer's seen this I'm-trying-not-to-look-pissed face often enough.

Ginger bustles in as Bob sits back beside Spencer and Jeff seats himself on the other side of the room. Bob's flowers are now in a vase, and she sets them carefully down on the table under the window. "Can I get you a drink?" she offers.

"Just a water," Bob says.

"Are you sure?" Ginger asks. "We have soda, or beer-" Spencer doesn't know if that's a genuine offer – if it had come from his dad, it would certainly be meant as a test. Ginger's offered him and Ryan drinks a few times – last Christmas, Ryan's graduation – but Ryan always says no, knee-jerk reaction, and Spencer has to stand in solidarity with his best friend.

"I'm driving," Bob says. "Water would be great."

Crystal and Jackie file down from whatever they'd been doing, and are sort of weird and subdued. Spencer's glad his mom had explained things to them earlier, he really didn't want to have to come out to them, too. From what they've said – well, from what they haven't said – Spencer thinks Ginger threatened them with death or, like, no TV and no internet for a month if they made fun of him for being gay.

The whole dinner sort of goes like that – Spencer feels awkward, the girls are quiet, and Jeff is barely short of hostile. Bob is very, very polite, and not even in a stilted way – Spencer can hardly tell that it's taking effort for him not to swear.

The only surprising part is Ginger's reaction. As far as Spencer can tell, his mom _loves_ Bob. She hasn't asked about his lip ring even once (Spencer had been as worried about the piercing as he had been about any of the rest of it), and unlike Jeff, none of her questions for Bob seem to be veiled references to their age difference. By the time she busts out the photo albums over dessert, Spencer's pretty sure she likes Bob better than she likes _Spencer_.

* * *  
_6.16pm_

Brendon knocks on Jon's door, but walks in without waiting for a response. "I come bearing groceries," he calls while toeing off his shoes, his hands occupied with white plastic bags filled with taco fixings and snack foods, all the supplies healthy growing boys need to keep their processed sugar levels as high as humanly possible (or superhumanly; whatever, Jon doesn't turn his nose up at Doritos, which is all Brendon asks for in a dude anyway).

Jon ducks out of the kitchen and puts his hands on Brendon's shoulders, kissing him briefly before saying anything or giving Brendon the chance to put his shopping down. "Hey," he says with a smile. Even if there hadn't been about eight million charming things about Jon, Brendon would still be a sucker for him, just because Jon always looks so damn happy to see Brendon, even happier when it's Brendon _and_ Ryan.

Speaking of which. "Where's Ryan?" Brendon asks, too busy leaning into Jon's neck to look at him.

"He had to pick up some books for his classes," Jon says, easing his grip a bit so Brendon can step back if he wants to. Brendon doesn't want to; he spent years not getting to touch as much as he wanted, he's taking advantage of being allowed as long as he can. "How was school?"

"Fine," Brendon says, which is not a lie. School is kind of a nothing, it's what he does during the day till he can be with his band or his friends or his boyfriends (who are mostly all the same people). He goes because he has to, and because it makes a convenient excuse to be out of the house – right now his parents think he's at jazz band orientation. "Are Spencer and Bob coming over?" he asks, because he doesn't want to go through all that with Jon, or have to tell stories about his day – most of which boil down to going to class and people ignoring him.

There's a pause before Jon says "Uh, no," and Brendon looks up at that – takes a step back so he can see Jon's eyes and set down the groceries, finally, on the dusty rug at the door. "Spencer didn't –" Jon cuts himself off.

Brendon frowns. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Jon replies, picking the bags up and heading back to the kitchen. Brendon trails after him. "Well, maybe?" He sighs. "I sort of don't know how much I can say."

"Yeah, you really have to say more than that," Brendon tells him. He's trying not to freak out. They're not supposed to have secrets like this, and especially not anymore.

"Bob's going over to Spencer's for dinner with his family."

Brendon can feel his eyebrows shoot way the fuck up. "What? How did that happen? Do they know..."

"They know Bob and Spencer are seeing each other, or whatever," Jon says, pulling an onion out of the bag and setting it carefully on his cutting board. "Spencer's mom caught him sneaking into the house yesterday and I guess he thought it would be better to explain that part than the bit where he hunts vampires."

"Slays," Brendon corrects, and then, "Why didn't he say anything? We had band practice yesterday and he didn't say anything."

"Bren," Jon says, putting a knife down beside the onion and coming back over to Brendon, pulling him in. "He came out to his parents and he was freaking out. And I don't think he wanted to bug you about that."

"Yeah, okay," Brendon says, because... yeah, okay.

"And don't tell Ryan, at least not right away? I'd like him to have a nice birthday for a while." Jon sounds apologetic, which Brendon definitely gets. Hiding something about Spencer from Ryan is taking your life into your hands, but there's no way this news won't upset him.

"Sure," Brendon agrees, and then, "Should we get started on dinner?" But Jon's looking up, alert in a way Brendon is pretty sure means Ryan's at the door.

* * *  
_7.28pm_

Bob can feel the weight of four sets of eyes – with varying degrees of hostility – all through dinner. It's not his first time playing to an unfriendly audience; the Watchers' Council aren't exactly known for being the most welcoming ever, so he knows to check himself carefully, trying his damnedest not to swear or drip spaghetti onto himself, and generally to seem like a good influence.

Sometimes it's five sets of eyes on him, though at least Spencer's aren't antagonistic for what seems like the first time in days. He even actually smiles at Bob a couple times. Bob has to admit to himself, he's missed Spencer's smile.

Despite Spencer's loud protests, Bob is more than willing to look through old photo albums when Ginger suggests it. Spence tries to hide his face, but Bob can't help grinning at some of the pictures. He'd been pretty fucking cute. Ryan's in a bunch of them too. Nothing in them _contradicts_ Bob's original suspicion that Ryan's not entirely human, but he isn't about to bring it up again, especially not in front of people who (hopefully) still know nothing about Spencer's extracurricular activities.

It doesn't take very long for Spencer to get fed up with this display. "Mooooom," he says. It's – well, it's about the most teenager-ish Bob has ever seen Spencer, and he might worry except that he still whines at his own mother like that. "Can I talk to Bob alone?" Spencer asks. "Please?"

Ginger gives Bob a hard once-over. Bob tries to exude an air of _I won't do inappropriate things to or with your son_. "Sure," she says. "You boys can go off to Spencer's room."

"The door stays open," Jeff adds sternly. Bob hopes he isn't blushing. He never got that kind of protective treatment at home, though he has been on his own since he was Spencer's age, and before that he wasn't exactly the most popular kid at school. Besides that, he's pretty sure Spencer wants alone time to talk about the slaying and not for kissing, and that isn't something Bob would have to hide from his mom.

Bob's doing his best not to look too curious about Spencer's room -- it is the first time he's been in there, and his fingers are itching with the urge to run over the CDs on the shelf, to look too closely at his books and posters and the other regular debris of teenage boyhood. He's a little worried it might seem weird if he's too interested, regardless of the fact that Spencer's been in his house more times than he can count, and has started leaving some of his shit around Bob's room, even. Of course, the problem with that plan is that then his gaze just winds up fixed on _Spencer_, remembering how it feels to touch him.

"Um," Spencer says. "We should- we never really got to talk yet about the thing. Uh. With My Chem and all."

"I'm not exactly sure what's going on," Bob says, hands in pockets because he's not sure what else to do with them. And, right, duty calls. He has to focus on the _job_. "Mikey wasn't all that – he's psychic, he's, like, a precog, and he goes into these sort of trances. He was in one of them when he called me, so he wasn't all that coherent."

"Okay, what do you remember him saying?"

"There's... someone's following them around, and they're collecting weird shit. He gave me what I think is a partial list, and it matched more or less the details Brian managed to email through to me," Spencer makes a face which Bob interprets as his opinion of the source, and Bob vows privately that to hell with honesty, he's just never ever going to admit to Spencer that he and Brian had been kind of on-again-off-again friends-with-benefits ever since they'd broken up. He doesn't think that news is ever going to go down well.

"I've been tracking some of the more obvious hints on the internet and through the records I have access to, but I haven't found much of anything yet," he went on, shrugging. He'd normally be a bit further through the research stuff by this point, but things have been kind of hectic. And if whatever's out there is actually following the guys around -- Bob remembers some of the crazier obsessed fans he'd seen in the past and flinches -- then they're not in town yet and it's not like there's much they can do in the meantime anyway.

"Which doesn't mean much, does it?" Spencer says, resigned, because god knows as much as he hates to do it, Bob's had to let him out in the field with incomplete information more often than not.

"Yeah," Bob admits, scratching behind his ear, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Fuck, if he'd been this bad at concentrating on the task at hand he'd never have made it through his training, let alone been able to run a sound board. "I'm going to keep going, see what else I can turn up that might be related, at least. Maybe make a few more phone calls."

"Okay, well, that's – yeah, you focus on the research. And we'll get more information..." Spencer trails off halfway through his sentence and says "Bob, what is it? You're looking at me all-" because Bob can't stop staring at his mouth.

"Spencer," he says, and he knows his voice sounds low and gravelly. He can see Spencer shiver. It's – okay, Bob knows he's dipped into his sex voice. "Spencer, walk me out now and say goodnight."

Bob doesn't really expect Spencer to just blindly take any order -- even one as innocuous as that -- lying down, and he's not disappointed because Spencer just says "Why?"

"Because otherwise I'm going to end up doing something to you that I really, really don't want your mother walking in on. Which she would." Spencer doesn't dispute the accuracy of that statement. Ginger has _radar_, it didn't take Bob more than ten seconds of meeting her to figure that out himself. "I'm pretty sure she's already planning to dice me up and feed my balls to a pack of harpies," Bob continues.

"Oh, no, she likes you," Spencer says cheerfully, and shit, his hand is on Bob's thigh, and Bob's pretty sure Spencer's sister -- one of them, he's not sure which yet -- was outside like a _minute_ ago, and it's not like slayers tend to be the most well-balanced individuals around, but Spencer must be insane, and Spencer is still talking, and entirely failing to reassure Bob in the slightest, "don't worry. Besides, you know as well as I do that the closest pack of harpies is way out in California. I'd be more worried about the dog if I was you."

"Remind me again why we're, uh-"

"Screwing around?" Spencer suggests brightly.

"_Dating_," Bob corrects over the top of him and then goes red anyway and smacks Spencer's hand off his leg. "Behave. We're still trying to persuade them to let you out later this week, remember?"

"Fine," Spencer sighs, and stands up. And then, with what Bob hopes like hell is an exercise of his slayer senses to confirm there's no one else upstairs right then, he shoves Bob back against the wall by the door and kisses him, body pressing hard up against Bob all the way. Bob kisses back for approximately eleven seconds before remembering where they are, and then Spencer's pulling away and heading down to the door anyway. "C'mon," he calls over his shoulder, and Bob has to jog to catch up. Jeff and Ginger are downstairs, and definitely using the full scope of parental telepathy to make sure he doesn't have any questionable thoughts about their son's backside as he follows him down the stairs.

"It was really nice to meet you," Bob says when they get back to the living room.

"You too," Ginger says. She sounds cheerful. Jeff doesn't say anything, but he's at least not actively glaring. "You'll come over again, right?"

"Any time," Bob says sincerely. "But I was actually – some friends of mine are going to be in town this week, they're in a band I used to tour with, and I was hoping Spencer could come with me to their show on Thursday. I know he's grounded, but I don't know when there'll be another chance for him to meet my friends."

"I don't think that's a great idea," Jeff says, frowning.

"Please?" Spencer asks. "It's practically my birthday!"

Ginger and Jeff exchange a look. Jeff's frown doesn't go away, but Ginger says, "You'd have him home by midnight?"

"Of course," Bob says, mentally crossing his fingers – he definitely means to, but emergencies are sort of, well, routine in their line of work.

"Ryan will be there, too," Spencer offers.

"I never thought I'd be expecting Ryan to be the one taking care of you," Ginger says ruefully. Spencer makes a sound of protest. "You can go," she says. "Bob, you'll come pick him up?"

Bob is pretty sure that's code for him getting another grilling, but there's probably no getting out of it. And, fuck, he probably deserves it. "I'll see you then," he says.

"I'll walk you to the door," Spencer breaks in, and then steps outside with him when they get there. "I'll try to sneak out later to patrol," he says in a low voice. "But it'll have to be after my parents are asleep."

"Yeah, totally," Bob says. And then, "Hey are we – are we okay? Are you still mad at me?"

Spencer takes a moment before replying. "We're okay," he agrees. Bob thinks he might be – not lying, but at least exaggerating. He's going to take it for now, though.

"Okay," Bob says, then leans in to kiss Spencer lightly, and fuck any parents or sisters or neighbors who might be watching. "I'll talk to you soon."

* * *  
_8.20pm_

Once they've finished dinner, Jon ushers Ryan and Brendon into the living room to, uh, hang out before he busts out the cupcakes he made that afternoon. (It took forever, too – Jon would never have been able to bring himself to eat the first batch, even in wolf form when he's a lot less picky about food.) The kitchen is pretty cosy, but Jon hasn't figured out a way three people could comfortably make out in it. He's actually devoted a fair bit of energy to working that out.

However, the couch in the living room is plenty comfortable, and they are all well acquainted with it by now. Brendon is sorting out all of their limbs to his preference – going so far as to raise Jon's arm and drape it over Ryan's shoulders – and Jon is wondering whether he should try for subtle or just start kissing Ryan's neck (and maybe it's a little telling, or fucked up or something, how much Jon likes his boyfriends' necks, but he _does_, and it's not like either of them are complaining) when Ryan says "I just thought Spencer and Bob would have been here."

Jon takes that as a sign and doesn't lean in. Ryan had actually asked about them when he first arrived, but Brendon had said "Just us tonight," and distracted him while Jon finished up the food prep as quick as he could. There are reasons Jon is kind of crazy about Brendon, and his unexpectedly devious mind is right up there.

There are reasons he's crazy about Ryan, too, and Jon would be lying if he said Ryan's friendship with Spencer wasn't on the list. Jon knows something about the devotion and co-dependence involved in being a best friend.

"They sort of had plans," Jon says, and steels himself for what he knows is to come. He glances at Brendon, who is tilting his head and not saying anything, certainly deliberately. "They were actually having dinner with Spencer's family tonight."

Ryan blinks. "What," he says, and it's not really a question.

Jon feels like a jackass, even though he knows it's not his fault Spencer keeps coming to him about this. Not his fault that Spencer won't go to Ryan, either. "His mom caught him sneaking in yesterday morning, that's why she'd been calling that night. And I guess he said he was at his boyfriend's. So she wanted to meet Bob."

"And he told you about it." Ryan sounds flatter than Jon's ever heard before.

"And he told me about it."

"It's not a big deal, Ry," Brendon puts in, and Ryan looks totally betrayed as he turns.

"He told you, too?"

"No, Jon told me this afternoon," Brendon says evenly. "But we knew you'd be upset and didn't want to wreck your birthday."

"Of course I'm upset," Ryan says. A stranger wouldn't be able to tell from his tone of voice, but Jon definitely can. "Why wouldn't he come to me about it?"

Jon bites his lip, but Brendon is apparently (unsurprisingly) a lot braver than him about the elephant in the room. "Because of your dad," he says, running a hand through Ryan's hair. Brendon's posture looks strangely loose beside Ryan, who's holding himself impossibly stiffly. Jon wonders how he looks beside the two of them. "He didn't tell me because of my parents, and he didn't tell you because of your dad," Brendon continues. "He's Spencer, and he didn't want to upset us. You know how he is."

"He should have told me," Ryan says.

"Probably," Jon agrees, if only because he hates being the bearer of bad news. "But he wanted to protect you."

"He needs to quit that," Ryan mutters, and then "I need to call him."

Jon and Brendon exchange a look as Ryan goes to grab his cell. He's back a minute later, looking at the phone like it's failed him. "Spence didn't answer," he says. "Let me just, I need to text him."

"He will when he gets a chance, he's probably still busy. Hey, come on," Jon says, trying to sound soothing as he tugs Ryan back down onto the couch. They've only got so long tonight; he has to work tomorrow morning, Brendon has school and Ryan has class. More importantly, Ryan and Brendon both have parents who are expecting them home at a reasonable hour. After what happened to Spencer they're all a little jumpy about pushing their luck with curfews right now.

Ryan lands, a little undignified but not unwilling, half on Jon's lap. Brendon shoots Jon a smile and then leans over Ryan. He looks a little wolfish, actually, and lucky both he and Ryan are pretty small, because most of their weight is resting on Jon right now. Not that Jon's complaining, snaking a hand onto Ryan's thigh and not even trying to pretend he isn't watching avidly as Brendon and Ryan kiss. They're sort of wriggling on top of him, which feels fucking _great_, and Jon's working his free hand between them when there's a loud knock on the front door.

Jon sags back into the couch and takes a selfish moment to scream inside the privacy of his own head. He knows who it is, recognises the knock, even, let alone the evidence of his senses. Ryan and Brendon aren't going to take this well, and he'd just got them both calm and happy. Someone hates him, and he's pretty sure the bastard's name is Murphy.

Brendon just looks at him, uncertain, and Jon hates so much to be putting that look on his face. "Who-?" he asks, because sometimes they like to pretend it's a party trick, that Jon's just really good at guessing if it's the Avon lady (there's something about the combination of powder, wax and plastic that makes them kind of unmistakeable), the pizza guy, really persistent evangelists or Spencer trying to sneak up on them, and not something he can do as easily as breathing.

"It's them, isn't it?" Ryan says flatly, scrambling out of Jon's lap, and Jon misses his weight acutely. "Your friends."

Jon reminds himself not to look ashamed or pissed off -- because he's not, he shouldn't be, they're his friends just like Spencer and Bob are; they're just... significantly more awkward. "I'm sure it's important, Ry," he says, getting up to let them in. "They wouldn't bother us at home otherwise." Ryan's hackles go down just a fraction when Jon says home, and he can't help the tiny glad lift of his heart to notice that. He's been quietly working hard to get Brendon and Ryan to consider his apartment a second home, to make it comforting and welcoming for them; he knows they're not exactly ready to share it with him all of the time, and he's getting massively ahead of himself even to consider that already, he knows it, but, well. He's wired to be a committed guy, and he made up his mind about just what exactly he wants a long time ago now. The only question is, always– is that what they want?

* * *  
_8.55pm_

"Sorry," Tom murmurs as they troop in past Jon, kicking shoes into the pile by the door. "It's fine," Jon murmurs back, just as quietly, and brushes his hand over Tom's wrist for emphasis. They're all tactile, it's a pack thing, and he's pretty sure that Ryan and Brendon aren't likely to misinterpret that slight a touch, at least. They're just lucky they'd met in public and human-shaped on Sunday; the usual pack greeting after a long absence tends to involve a lot of licking and the kind of juvenile wrestling matches that either look like a vicious fight or something really, really obscene. Occasionally both at the same time.

He points them to the couch and the floor, variously -- Ryan and Brendon have shifted onto the armchair, the two of them fitting easily into the single space, and Jon seats himself at their feet, leaning back against four bony knees. The message isn't subtle, and every person in the room gets it. Some of them look happier about it than others.

"So we've got confirmation that your slayer's who he says he is," Max starts, eyes distant as he goes into lecture mode. Jon can feel Ryan tense up, immediately defensive, and he'd be the same himself; he told them, he vouched for Spencer, but in their position he can't blame them for wanting to check, just in case. "Which means we can tell you a bit more about why we're here."

"And?" Brendon asks impatiently, when Max pauses a little bit too long.

Max looks awkward. Sean has the grace to look sheepish, Ryan and Al are doing their best to pretend to be wallpaper, and Tom is the one who throws himself on the metaphorical grenade.

"And we can tell _you_," he repeats with emphasis. "Not, um. Them. Right now, that is." Tom's expression implies that if he had his way that would be "never", but he's maybe a little oversensitive. Tom's had some bad experiences.

"Are you fucking serious," Ryan says, nowhere near quietly enough for this audience.

"What's the matter, kid?" Tom asks dangerously, with something that is definitely a baring of teeth and not at all a smile. Jon couldn't be fucking prouder that Ryan doesn't even flinch.

"It's all very growly and macho of you to walk in like you run this town," Brendon says, and he sounds like normal, vibrant and strong and passionate, but Jon can feel his knee shaking and he knows it's rage fuelling that, that Brendon is a breath away from losing his own temper, and it's going to be ugly if he does. Right now, though, right now he's on fire, and Jon leans back into him, letting his weight ground him, letting his body speak in silent support. "But we actually _live_ here, and we care about what happens in this place, and since I don't exactly see you guys out there almost every single night making sure that there's nothing scary in the dark for all us _kids_, then as far as we're concerned you should either shut the fuck up or let us help."

There's silence, and Ryan and Al redouble their furnishings impressions. Max does his best to join them, looking vaguely embarrassed, and Tom and Sean conduct a rapid-fire argument entirely without words. Jon waits; if they settle down he'll let it go, but one more crack like that and he's going to speak up. And by speak up, he means take it out of Tom's hide. They've settled more than one disagreement the hard way in the past, and Jon might be a lone wolf these days but it doesn't mean he's going to let his pack walk all over him and his.

"Sorry," Sean says again, and "Sorry," Tom mutters ungraciously. Jon figures they're going to wind up having a talk sooner or later, he can't exactly put it off much longer himself. And he knows it's not entirely Tom's fault that things are strained; people who basically run away from home and send a letter once a month or so don't have much of a Get Out of Jail Free card themselves. He should probably have tried to clear more of that up before letting Ryan and Brendon get involved, because while he's pretty sure he's going to get mocked from all sides for being involved with two guys who can't even grow beards yet, it should be a lot more good-natured than it feels right now.

"PMS?" Jon suggests dryly, and Brendon chokes.

"Shouldn't that be PLS?" Ryan asks, dangerously innocent, and Jon bites his lip rather than giggling, which is what he actually wants to do. He kind of loves it when Ryan's bitchy, so long as he's not the target.

"Funny," Tom says, but his lips are twitching too, and shit, it's not like any of them haven't heard that joke before -- they can change at will normally, but a full moon forces it, and some people get more short-tempered in the middle of that particular cycle than others. Not that Jon would be naming names, or anything.

"Okay," he goes on, giving in with the minimum of ill grace. "We've been getting reports out in Chicago that there've been some wild animal attacks, lately. And some violent stabbings with no known motive, major post-mortem soft tissue trauma, all the sorts of serious alarm bell ringing that no one likes to see. And added to some of what's been coming up in the cards," Tom makes another face there which expresses everything he thinks about fortune telling and all that kind of business quite eloquently; Jon kind of agrees most of the time but the upper echelons of their crowd do like to take tradition seriously, "it seemed like one of our people was maybe in trouble down here."

Jon blushes and drops his eyes to the carpet at that. It's pretty clear why it's the five of them who've come out now, and not anyone else. They'd been worried. He can't exactly blame them.

"So we're out here, kind of nosing around, seeing if anything should drop into our laps," Sean picks up the thread, letting Tom go back to picking threads from the arm of Jon's couch, looking as awkward as Jon feels. "I mean, the timing was actually pretty good -- we've got a opening spot at a gig on the weekend, so we've got a ready excuse to be here in the first place, if anyone starts asking questions."

"You're actually playing now?" Jon interrupts, a little shocked. He hadn't heard _that_ yet himself.

"Mmm," Tom says, noncommittally, and waves for Jon to let it go for the moment.

"Anyway, so imagine our surprise when we run across you lot in a cemetery," Al says, because they'd put that together belatedly, too, "all nosing around where tasty little humans shouldn't normally be. All mixed up in our business. And then we find our Jonny all tucked up in _your_ little group, human all over him, and, well, we've learned to be cautious." He makes a c'est la vie gesture, and smiles. "Seemed like a good idea to figure out the lay of the land before we gave away all our secrets."

Jon is mostly just hoping that the other two didn't quite catch the 'all over him' part; it's perfectly normal and useful phrasing for werewolves, and he would smell like the two of them these days, doesn't think anyone like him could miss it on him, but it does still sound a bit insulting, even if that's not how Al had meant it. He rolls his head back on his neck as if he's stretching and watches Ryan and Brendon through half-closed lashes. They seem to be warming to the guys a bit now, which is good; normally Jon would have been looking forward to throwing this group together to see what would happen, and hopefully they'll be able to stay in town long enough afterwards to jam, too -- he has a feeling that music might be enough of a bond to get them all over some of the early bumps.

"So you're after whoever's been dumping bodies out in the desert," Brendon says, putting it all together, looking enlightened and a bit macabrely fascinated.

"Basically."

"So how can we help?" Ryan asks practically.

Sean's smile is sympathetic and genuine. "Right now? Try not to hold it against us when we say that mostly we just need to borrow Jon for a bit. He's a good tracker, and we could use the assist. There's definitely another wolf around town -- we found some week-old markings last night, which means we're on the right track at least -- and if we can catch up with him, we can probably get some more information there. Maybe help him out if he's the one in trouble."

Ryan shifts around in the chair, tucks his legs up under himself and leans more heavily on Brendon for just a fraction of a second. "Actually... it's getting late and we should probably go," he says, but it's definitely nothing like as pissy as he was earlier, so Jon's willing to take this as a win.

"I'll walk you out," he offers, standing up so that they can get up as well, letting them take a hand each so he can pull them to their feet. They hover at the threshold for a long minute, tangled up in a threeway hug that's only a fraction tighter than usual, and Jon kisses Brendon, hot and lingering, and then Ryan, soft and deep, and then leans his cheek against Ryan's barely scratchy chin to watch them kiss in turn. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says quietly, squeezing their hands as they step out and away.

"Text me when you get back home," Ryan calls, from the sidewalk by Brendon's car, and Brendon seconds him immediately, "me too!"

"For sure," Jon says, waving like a giant dork, because, yeah, they'll worry.

He stands at the door until Brendon's around the corner and out of sight with a flash of brake lights, and then heads back inside, perching cross-legged on the coffee table, eyeballing them all in turn. "So what part didn't you mention yet?" he asks calmly, because he _knows_ them and they definitely weren't telling him everything in front of the other two.

Sean and Tom exchange another speaking look, but it's actually Ryan who spills the beans. "There's a unicorn somewhere out here."

* * *  
Wednesday  
* * *  
_12.27pm_

Spencer's spending his lunch hour in the library, trying to get some research of his own done. He thinks he might be really conspicuous, because magical tomes don't much resemble textbooks, but it would be worse if his parents caught him in their new-and-improved-strictness phase. He's scribbling some illegible notes when he hears "what, you're too good to sit with us again?" in a too-loud voice. He looks up to see Cassadee, arms akimbo but smiling crookedly.

"Uh," he says. "Sorry? I was just –"

"It's okay," she says cheerfully, sitting down beside him. "I don't want to hang out with those guys all the time, either. Hey, what are you reading?" Spencer groans inwardly. There is no way to shield the book from her. "Dude," she says. "You're looking up ways to fight a _pegasus?_ Isn't that a little..."

"Gay?" Spencer offers resignedly.

"I was going to say retarded. What is this, like a Dungeons and Dragons thing?"

"Hey!" Spencer cries. He hasn't played D&amp;D for _months._ She looks skeptical, and he belatedly realises that actually makes a decent cover story. "Yes," he mutters.

"Oh, cool," she says. "You should invite me to play some time. Need any help?"

Spencer thinks for a moment, then shoves a book at her. "Look up centaurs," he says. "Write down anything about them that I wouldn't know from watching _Hercules_."

"Spencer Smith, you are a surprising guy," Cassadee says, flipping to the index. "Oh, hey, isn't that the band teacher?" she adds. "Is he glaring at you?"

Spencer's head shoots up. There's Bob all right, and while that isn't his actual glare – it's a lot scarier – he does look pretty intense. "Um," he says. "Yeah. I actually need to go talk to... Mr. Bryar. Hold on, okay?" Cass nods and bends over the book.

"What is it?" Spencer hisses when he gets to Bob, keeping his voice as quiet as possible. It's pretty empty, but they're still in a library, and they definitely have to keep things on the down-low.

"Who is that?" Bob asks. "Is that my book?"

"Cassadee?" Spencer asks. "She's just, like, a girl I know. She thinks I'm looking shit up for Dungeons and Dragons."

"I don't like it," Bob says, looking sort of unreasonable.

"Well, unless you want to explain that she's looking through _your_ book on magical creatures, suck it up."

"I don't even know her!"

"Maybe I have friends you don't know about!" Spencer has to fight to keep his voice from rising. Maybe he's still madder than he thought he was.

"Spence," Bob says. "I don't think she wants to be your friend. She's watching you right now."

"You watch me."

There's a pause. "Uh, yeah," Bob says. "That was actually sort of my point."

Spencer sighs. "She doesn't like me that way," he says. "And you need to not like me that way when we're at fucking school. Go away, I'll talk to you later."

"Wait, Spence, what are you even looking up?"

Oh, right. Spencer's been busy, he sort of... forgot to tell Bob about the hoofprints the other night. "I was at that golf course again and there's something weird – I saw tracks the other night, and I think I might have seen another –" Spencer hesitates and lowers his voice. "Someone like Jon. I'll tell you about it later, okay? Now seriously, go away before she gets suspicious." Neither of them has to say anything, but Spencer can read in Bob's expression that they're both suspicious about Jon's friends. There's no guarantee they're as trustworthy as he is, and it's not exactly like Spencer can outright _ask_ where they were on Sunday morning and what they were doing.

"Fine," Bob says, and then letting his voice carry a little, "Keep up the practicing, Smith."

"Drummer stuff," Spencer explains when he gets back to Cassadee. "Mr. Bryar's really good."

"Oh, cool," she says dismissively. "Hey, did you know centaurs were apparently descended from a cloud?"

Spencer blinks. "How would that even- you know what, don't answer that. _Ew_."

* * *  
_7.45pm_

Jon feels obligated to protest when Ryan suggests going over to Spencer's. "He's grounded, right?" Jon asks.

Ryan makes a sort of dismissive snorting sound. "Yeah, but his mom and dad are really bad at sticking to things like that," he says. "Ginger tried to ground him for a month when she caught us setting off firecrackers inside when we were in junior high, and it lasted three days. And they'll feel guilty about missing my birthday."

Jon acquiesces, and the Smiths do seem happy to see them -- Jeff claps Ryan on the shoulder, and says that he's a man for real now, and Ginger kisses Ryan on the cheek and hugs Brendon and Jon. He wonders how much she actually suspects -- they've all met Spencer's parents as 'part of the band' and all, but Spencer's mom is sharp -- this week has proved that, if nothing else, and whatever they're getting away with hiding from everyone else... he thinks she might have an inkling. About Brendon and Ryan, at least. Especially since neither of them is the subtlest guy in the universe.

Spencer's sticking pretty close to Ryan when they head down to the basement, ostensibly to watch a movie. "I need you guys to go talk to Bob," he says when they've turned the TV on and are out of range of familial ears. "I found these, like, hoofprints the other night at the golf course we were at this weekend, and I'm pretty sure they're not from a regular horse. I don't know what it is, I thought maybe like a centaur or something-"

"A unicorn," Jon blurts out.

The others all stare at him for a second. "I didn't think of that," Spencer says. "Yeah, it totally could be."

"No, it is," Jon says. "We were out there the other night. It's a unicorn."

"What, you saw a sparkly white pony?" Brendon asks. Coming from anyone else, it would sound sarcastic – Brendon's just excited.

"No. We could just tell."

"You and what are they called again?" Ryan asks, and there's an edge to his tone.

"Empires," Jon says, a little stung. "Werewolves can always tell." He has to consciously stop himself from squirming. He knows he can trust these guys with anything, knows they're all well aware of a lot more than most humans, but it's still really ingrained to try to _not_ tell humans any werewolf lore. Jon's going against centuries of tradition.

"You don't like unicorns," Spencer says, a little flat. Jon can't help bristling a little, even though he knows they don't mean to be rude.

"It's cultural," he mutters, and Brendon looks a little bit confused and Ryan looks a lot suspicious and Spencer looks either amused or pissed off, Jon can't quite tell which. Spencer is sometimes very irritating to try and read, Jon's kind of glad he's mostly Bob's problem in some areas.

No one says anything; they're all clearly waiting for him to keep going. "Look, a lot of what humans think about unicorns is wrong. They're not sparkly white ponies, and they're not... they're not nice. They're powerful, and they're dangerous." Jon has a captive audience. He rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. "I think... I could tell another werewolf had been out there. Not anyone I knew, and there aren't a lot of us in town. And I think something bad was going on. It just felt... not right."

"Wait," Brendon says. "Are you saying unicorns are _bad_?" His eyes are very, very wide.

"Sometimes," Jon says. "And, like, even when they're not bad, they're sort of... bad luck. For werewolves. We don't really get along."

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut. "You know, I've had to fight a lot of things, but I never thought I'd have to fight a fucking _unicorn_."

They all look disillusioned. Jon feels like he just told them that Santa isn't real. Except this is true.

"Oh my god," Spencer says, now sounding almost sick. "It's right near where all those stabbings have been. If I have to fight a unicorn serial killer, I _quit_."

"I don't know what's going on," Jon says quickly. "It doesn't work like that. It's just a feeling, you know? But we all get it. Tom was saying they were drawn there, and... I get it. One of us might be in trouble, you know?"

"Yeah, we know," Ryan says. He's as hard to read as ever, but Jon thinks he sounds a little pinched. Spencer levels a sharp look at Jon.

"Look, you don't have to... Spence, I know you have other stuff to do. And the guys are basically free till Trickfest this weekend, so we can just, like, take care of it. If there's a werewolf involved, it's our business."

"No," Spencer says, still sharp. "No, it's fine. Um. Talk to Bob about getting them into the concert tomorrow, and I'll talk to them then? I snuck out last night all right, but I don't want to push my luck with my parents, so I'm going to stay in tonight unless there's an emergency. But we'll figure something out. I can't stay out of it if something supernatural is killing humans."

Jon can't help arguing. "The slayer isn't supposed to get involved every time something magical and bad happens in the world."

"This isn't the world. This is my city, it's happening on my watch, and it is my business. Don't try to keep me out of it."

"I'm not, I just-"

"You have a lot on your plate," Ryan tells Spencer quietly. "You don't have to fix everything."

Spencer blinks at him. "Yes I do," he says simply.

It's so honest, and almost heartbreaking, and clearly a conversation Spencer and Ryan have had before. Jon feels guilty, like he's eavesdropping. He exchanges a look with Brendon, because he doesn't know where else to look.

Brendon clears his throat. "We should go talk to Bob," he says. "About the unicorn, and the tickets, and stuff." Brendon is remarkably good at defusing situations when he chooses to be.

"Yeah," Jon agrees, standing. "Ryan, are you coming?"

"I'm going to stay a bit," he says. "I'll see you guys later, okay?"

"Yeah, sure." Jon leans down to kiss him, and Brendon follows suit. "We'll meet you back at my place, okay?"

* * *  
_9.40pm_

"Hey, guys." Bob does not seem terribly happy to see them.

Jon can sympathize -- he kinda figures he'd be the same if he was having to teach high school band, train a slayer, and run herd on a bunch of kind of faily dudes who are still in their teens. He nobly omits himself, which is, okay, kind of a lie, but hey, he's _sympathizing with Bob_ here, he can totally be the fellow grown-up in this respect. Well. Probably, anyway. And if he also had to deal with a walloping bunch of supernatural menace to boot? Yeah, he'd probably be even less inclined to greet said dudes with open arms. Most likely it doesn't help that, by the sounds of things, Bob hasn't gotten laid in a while, and isn't likely to. Jon's only known Spencer for a couple of months, but that's long enough to be pretty sure that things in the Bob-and-Spencer box of relationship issues will have taken a u-turn out of the bedroom for the foreseeable future.

That being said, though, Bob does invite them in and fronts up with soda while Jon hunches into the couch and does his best to explain werewolf mythology to a guy whose ancestors probably melted down silver to hunt his great-great-however-many-times-great grandparents. Not that he holds that against Bob. Brendon hunts out the cookies under the coffee table; Jon is a little embarrassed he missed those, but he has to admit that Brendon has radar for sugar, or possibly sonar. Whatever.

"So, it's like an omen of bad luck for you guys, then?" Bob asks, chewing on his lip ring, leaning back in his chair to grab a book from the shelves behind him, flipping through it to check something without actually looking away from Jon.

"Kind of." Jon tries not to squirm. It's- it's beyond weird to talk about this kind of thing with people he hasn't known since he was making mud pies in the yard. "I'm not, I mean, I don't know much more than what everyone knows, it's not like I've studied or anything, but I think it's- well, we see things differently." He shrugs, tucks his legs up under himself and leans into Brendon's shoulder, trying to get his thoughts in some kind of sensible order.

"I mean, I guess back before telescopes and all that, well, the wolves made different pictures with the stars. And since it's not like the other magical races were exactly running out to make friends with us, well. So our mythology went kind of differently to yours, too."

"So I take it Orion's not a popular constellation, then?" Bob asks, with a little smile, and Jon laughs, because he can take a joke, and Bob's on the right track, at least.

Jon actually gets the impression that Bob finds the subtle shades of difference kind of fascinating; he's seen that dying-for-a-pen-and-paper-to-record-this-for-the-ages look on Bob's face often enough over the last couple of months when they've hit new and unusual bad guys or run across the kinds of things that just aren't in the records. Ryan had described it as his "and in my copious free time I shall next be composing a monograph on this subject" look, whereas Jon and Brendon had kindly refrained from telling him that he was just as prone to wearing it as Bob was, although in Ryan's case it usually meant he was about to vanish into his room and surface two days later with a pile of new lyrics.

"Yeah," Jon says, because there's not really much else he can tell Bob that'll help right now. They've more than fulfilled what Spencer had asked by this point, and Ryan might be waiting. Bob hasn't made any promises about getting Jon's guys in to the show tomorrow -- Jon gets that he can't, of course -- but he's said he'll do his best. Jon figures he can just drop Tom a text later in the evening and tell him to sort it out, he's pretty sure they've still got ways of getting places they're not technically meant to be, just like when they were all kids. Jon maybe snuck into more than one Smashing Pumpkins show on four feet, over the years. And he's kind of itching to get a move on, now. "Just. Stuff like that. And I guess there was probably some competition for good land or- fuck, I don't know. The usual sort of pre-civilisation dust-ups, I guess. Either way, Werewolf vs Unicorn, kind of up there with Alien vs Predator."

Jon quirks a grin at Bob and is about to stand up and make their excuses when he realises Brendon's gone very quiet beside him all of a sudden.

"Bren?"

Brendon's eyes are huge as he stares at Jon and says, "But, like, way less innocent bystander bodycount, right?"

Jon's about to backpedal hard on that comparison when he catches the mischievous twitch of Brendon's lips, and Bob's completely unsubtle snort of laughter is just the confirmation that they're both playing him.

"You both suck," he sighs, and shoves his feet back into his flipflops, curling his fingers around Brendon's forearm and tugging him none-too-gently to his feet in turn. "Come on, Bden, we should get back to Ryan."

"Thanks for the info, Jon," Bob says at the door, as if he actually has some comprehension of what it means to be talking about, well, about his people and their history openly and to not their kind. If anyone does, it's probably Bob, and Jon just nods, acknowledging the gesture before he pads down the driveway after Brendon.

"Hey, Jon-?" He stops, partway to the car. "Can you tell Spence- I'll see him tomorrow?"

"Sure," Jon says easily, and slides into the passenger seat. Call him suspicious, but he doesn't think that was what Bob had been planning to say, at the end there. They both wave as Brendon pulls back onto the road, and Bob disappears back into the house.

"Sucks to be Bob," Brendon observes, steering one-handed as he fishes his phone out of his jeans pocket.

Jon shrugs agreement, and threads his fingers in between Brendon's, reaching over to snitch the phone before Brendon can endanger both of their lives by texting while he drives instead of just holding Jon's hand, which is hopefully at least ten times less distracting. Brendon's thumb brushes over Jon's palm, and he downgrades that to three times less, maybe.

"Sucks to be Spencer, too, I think," he says thoughtfully. He can kind of sympathize with both of them, really. "Want me to text Ryan?" He unlocks the keypad before Brendon can even murmur agreement, taps out a quick text one-handed to check whether he's still at Spencer's or not, before Brendon finally retrieves his hand to flip stations on the radio when a song he doesn't like comes up.

* * *  
Thursday  
* * *  
_12.25pm_

Spencer's meant to be eating lunch with Cassadee and the rest of her friends again; it's the habit of like half a week so far, but they're fun to hang out with, and it's kind of nice to be around normal people for a change, or at least normal people he's not _related_ to.

He swings past his locker to dump a couple of textbooks out, and slows uncertainly as he realises that Cassadee isn't just waiting for him there, she's actually talking to Katie Ashdown and Danielle Strong -- who sure hang around there a lot for people who he thought had their lockers in the next building over, and he slows even more when it becomes increasingly clear that she's not so much talking as arguing.

"Uh, hi?" he says, because he can't really pretend to ignore any of them at this distance, and he's also hoping he's not actually going to have to get involved. Dani and Katie are in his English class, and he thinks Dani's in his US History class, too, but he doesn't really know either of them all that well. He'd lent Katie his English notes the day before, though, so maybe she wants to return those. It's about all he can think of, anyway, and it doesn't explain why they'd be giving Cassadee a hard time about something.

"Spence!" Cassadee exclaims, bouncing over and bumping her hip into his, a gesture that feels weirdly pointed. She's physically demonstrative, sure, he'd worked that out fast, but no more so than, like, Brendon or Jon, normally, and this is just... weird. "Great, you're here, let's get lunch, bye," and then she hustles him off.

"Jerks," Cass mutters under her breath, rolling her eyes, and Spencer feels a sudden surge of protectiveness. If they were picking on her- well, okay, he's not going to beat them up or anything -- Spencer doesn't prey on defenseless girls, emphasis on the defenseless -- but that's seriously uncool.

"Okay," Spencer says, grabbing her elbow and turning to face her. "What was all that about?" They're right by the cafeteria, but there aren't many people around right now, they can talk with reasonable privacy out here.

"Nothing," Cass says, looking stubborn, and Spencer doesn't buy it at all. "So, I think they're gonna announce a theme for the winter formal this week, any idea what it's going to be this year?" she asks, and then shoots him a grin to see if he's buying the snow job. Spencer has learned distraction techniques from the master, and Cassadee isn't even close to Ryan's subject-changing abilities.

"Yeah, not buying that. We can talk about the dance later, I want to know what's going on now. You're a junior, why the fuck would a couple of seniors want to be dicks to you?"

"Because you keep having lunch with us," she says with another eyeroll, and Spencer blinks, because nothing about that answer makes sense.

"Say what?"

Cassadee stares at him for a second, and then _laughs_. "You're pretty, but you're not that bright, huh?" she says with a friendly grin before walking towards the cafeteria, leaving Spencer frozen in place three feet behind her.

"What?" Spencer yelps, and then jogs to catch up, detouring to grab a plate with the day's lunch special before he slides into a seat next to her at the table. He has no idea what she's talking about. He remembers thinking that girls spoke a different language when he was _five_ (and, y'know, had cooties and all), but he's grown out of that by now.

"Seriously, what?" Spencer repeats, and Cass takes pity on him.

"Katie kind of wants in your pants, Spence," she says bluntly, and while he's still spluttering over that, "and I think she's not the only senior who's kind of jealous that you don't hang out with them."

Spencer shoots a glance over at a table of senior girls who he has known since he was _thirteen_ and none of whom -- that he knows of -- have been interested in him as more than a friend in all that time. More than one of them look suspiciously pink when he catches them looking back at him.

"Oh my _god_," Spencer says, eyes wide and slightly horrified. He really hopes he's not going that unflattering mottled shade of brick red that serious mortification gives him. He's never been unpopular or anything, but he's definitely never been the guy that girls giggle about in the corner before. Apparently spending the summer running around the city slaying vampires and fighting the forces of darkness has done more than just destroy his sleeping patterns. He hadn't thought he looked that different.

He'd really thought the reputation he'd had by the end of his junior year for being kind of weird would stuck around, but it does seem like more time and effort -- the Bob Bryar scholarship course of serious study for the successful slayer!, he thinks wildly -- has given them all a lot more practice at fast-talking and hiding the evidence.

"Really not that bright," Cass snickers again, way more amused than any person should be in this situation, and Spencer flicks a forkful of macaroni at her in retaliation.

* * *  
_5.19pm_

Bob is early enough picking him up that Spencer isn't ready yet, still in his room deciding what to wear. He wants to look not just concert-appropriate but also _good_, and maybe older if he can get away with it. He's pretty settled on his skinniest jeans – he'd texted Ryan, and it had taken a while, but Ryan had sent back his approval – but he's torn between wearing a t-shirt (he's mentally discarded all of the ones with glitter and/or the ones that came from the juniors department; he's left with just a couple of band shirts) and like a black button-down or something. He's sent Ryan about three more messages about it, but Ryan hasn't texted him back.

"Spencer!" his mom calls up the stairs. "Your boyfriend is here!"

Spencer can hear tittering from behind the wall that separates his room from Jackie's. He takes a second to have a moment of literal facepalm, because seriously, how is this his life? And that's coming from the guy who's grown used to killing mythical beings as a hobby. He doesn't know if he's comfortable with how quickly his mom has taken to Bob, as much as it's making his life a whole lot easier right now. Shouldn't she be more protective or something? Though, Spencer thinks wryly, his dad is probably being protective enough for the both of them. He's pretty sure his dad hadn't expected to be so defensive about his _son_. He's also pretty sure he's sulking in his office right now because Spencer's allowed out with Bob at all.

"Spence!" his mom calls again.

"Coming!" he yells, and throws on the button-down because it's what's in his hand and it's clear Ryan isn't getting back to him. He really doesn't want his mom to send Bob upstairs while he's half-dressed. Not like it's anything Bob hasn't seen before, but if a member of his family caught them in any state of undress, Spencer's pretty sure he would die on the spot.

Bob and Ginger are in the kitchen when Spencer comes down, coffee cups in hands. "You look nice," she says approvingly. Spencer rolls his eyes.

Bob clearly catches him, because he smiles and agrees, "You do," and Spencer looks down a second because he doesn't want to catch the proud grin he _knows_ is on his mother's face right now. Seriously, how is this his life? This would be enough for any one person, but _Spencer_ not only has to deal with his mom's weird crush on his boyfriend, but then has to go meet some rock stars, and then fight a unicorn or something.

"We should head out," Spencer says in lieu of having to acknowledge either compliment. "They'll be waiting."

"I'm sure they can entertain themselves," Bob says dryly. Spencer tries to keep his eyes from widening, but luckily his mother either doesn't catch the implication or ignores it (Spencer desperately hopes she doesn't get it; his mom already knows way too much about his sex life, he doesn't want to know if she knows anything about Ryan's).

"Did you have a nice time bonding?" Spencer asks as they get into Bob's car, a little snarkier than he'd intended.

"Yes," Bob says simply. "Or did you want me to make a your mom joke?"

Spencer wrinkles his nose. "Please don't," he says.

"I like your mom," Bob says.

"It's just weird that she likes _you_ so much."

"I am a great guy, Spencer Smith. Moms always love me. Besides," Bob says, taking a left, "wouldn't it be worse if she didn't?"

Which is the very same point Spencer keeps repeating to himself.

"You really do look good," Bob adds.

Spencer squirms a little in his seat. He feels overdressed now beside Bob, who's wearing an Alkaline Trio t-shirt and a ragged black hoodie. "Thanks," he says uncomfortably. "I wanted – whatever."

Bob glances over at him, grinning like he knew what was going through Spencer's head. "Seriously, don't worry about it," he says. "They're really nice, I promise. Not intimidating at all." Which was easy enough for Bob to say.

They pull up to Jon's a few minutes late, which has Spencer a little twitchy – he hates being late, and to compensate, he practically runs up to the apartment, Bob following at a more normal pace.

Spencer tries the door, finds it unlocked, and opens it on an unfortunately familiar scene. He flings it closed again and turns, back pressed against the door, eyes shut. "Okay, _seriously_," he yells through the hastily-shut door. "You _knew_ we were coming over, guys."

Bob catches up and, upon seeing the expression on Spencer's face, cracks the fuck up. "Deja vu?" he makes out. Spencer scowls. Easy enough for Bob to laugh – he couldn't have seen what was going on, and he hasn't known any of the participants since kindergarten, Christ.

"You can come in now!" Brendon calls, his voice more high-pitched than usual. "We're all clothed and everything!"

Bob is literally _bent over_ he's laughing so hard. Spencer hates his life. He opens the door carefully, but everyone is sitting decorously on the couch now, even if they are sitting closer together than the size of the couch really requires. "I hate you all," Spencer tells them.

"You're early," Ryan intones, fiddling with his cuffs.

"We're really not," Bob says. He's still laughing, but at least he's nominally on Spencer's side. "Come on, guys, we need to get out of here in like twenty if we're going to have time to talk to the band before the show."

"Rad," Brendon says, practically bouncing in his seat. "I can't believe we're going to meet My Chemical Romance!"

Bob shoots Spencer a guilty look, but Spencer's making an effort not to be a jealous bitch about this. "Not if you don't hurry and get ready," he says.

"I am ready!" Brendon says indignantly. He's wearing a pink hoodie.

"No, you're not," Ryan tells him. "Come on, let me do your makeup." Brendon bounces up. Ryan holds a hand out to Jon, who stays resolutely sitting.

"We talked about this," Jon says easily. "No makeup, Ross. No fucking way." Brendon pouts, but Jon doesn't move.

"Fine," Ryan sighs after a moment. "Spencer, come on."

Spencer's pretty sure he doesn't have a choice in the matter as Ryan leads them into the bathroom. He insists on going last, in the hopes that they won't have time or, at least, he can keep Ryan down to just eyeliner. He sits down on the toilet lid and wishes he could wait his turn out in the living room, where Bob and Jon are probably having an awesome and manly conversation about their beards or something instead of in here, where Brendon is giggling helplessly as Ryan tries to paint birds on his cheekbone.

Ryan is kind of a perfectionist, and he's just finishing up with Brendon's eye makeup when Bob calls "Five minute warning, guys." Ryan beckons Spencer over with the eyeshadow brush he'd been using.

"Eyeliner," Spencer says definitively. "Seriously," he adds when Ryan starts to pout minutely. "We don't have time for anything else. Keep it down to eyeliner or you don't get to meet Gerard Way."

Ryan keeps sort-of pouting, but his fanboy side always wins out over his fun-with-Sephora side. "Fine," he says. "Hold still."

Bob's eyes widen when they go back out into the living room, just under the wire for time. Spencer can't quite read his expression. He'd worry it was too much, but they're going to a fucking My Chemical Romance concert, Bob used to _tour_ with them, he has to have seen guys in way more makeup than this. "I think we should take two cars," he says, eyes not leaving Spencer's. "Just in case."

"I have my mom's minivan," Brendon announces.

"Perfect," Bob says absently. "Spence, come on."

There's really no question about who's going in which car. Bob puts his key in the ignition as Brendon's minivan pulls out, but doesn't start the car. "Spence," he says, sounding almost desperate. "Spence, you look _so hot._" He practically lunges over the stick to grab at Spencer's shoulder and kiss him, just off-centre.

Spencer knows he has above-average reflexes, but he's practically frozen. He doesn't think he could get away even if he wanted to. He can hear himself make a stupid little "mmmph" sound into Bob's mouth before he starts kissing back properly, lining them up and sucking on Bob's tongue.

"Seriously," Bob mumbles into Spencer, hands moving into Spencer's hair, down his face.

"Maybe I should wear eyeliner more often," Spencer says, breathlessly.

Bob pulls away, a hand on Spencer's throat. "I don't think I could handle that," he says, sounding dead earnest.

Spencer smiles, knowing there's every chance he looks a little smug. "We should get going," he says.

It doesn't take long to get to the venue. The other guys are sort of lurking in the hotel lobby – makes sense, Spencer thinks; they couldn't exactly get backstage without Bob. Ryan raises an eyebrow when he sees them. Bob high-fives the guy on the door -- so obviously proving his identity isn't going to be a problem -- grins broadly and takes a minute to exchange a few cryptic comments. The guy (who has more piercings than Spencer has seen outside of a hardcore show, and almost every inch of visible skin covered with colourful ink; he might as well be wearing a neon sign that says "I work for a rock band") grins back at him, and hands over a fistful of wristbands when Bob points at Spencer, Brendon, Jon and Ryan.

He lets them through into a utility corridor which takes them into backstage area of the nearly-empty arena. Bob leaves the lot of them by a huge pile of empty gear boxes stacked stage right, with strict instructions to stay right there while he goes off to find someone he knows. He's been gone for maybe thirty seconds when Ryan draws Spencer away from the others, back towards the main stage door. There are a couple of people in crew t-shirts standing behind it, ignoring them assiduously, and a steady stream of people running outside to smoke frantically.

"Your eyeliner is smudged," Ryan points out flatly.

"Fuck you," Spencer says hotly. "Hey, do you maybe want to _not_ be having sex the next time I come over? Seriously, what's wrong with you guys? Can't any of you keep it in your pants for like half an hour?"

"Whatever," Ryan says dismissively. "You're just jealous you aren't getting any; just because you're saving it for your wedding night or whatever..."

"Fuck you," Spencer says again, feeling like he doesn't have much of an argument. It's been – well, days, but obviously a lot more time than it has been for Ryan. "Let's just go back, okay?"

"Let me fix your eyeliner-"

"No." Spencer smacks Ryan's hand down.

* * *  
_8.00pm_

Bob comes back about the same time as there's a roar from behind the curtains that they all correctly decode as the opening band taking the stage. He's got a couple of laminates hanging from his fingers and an apologetic expression on his face. Ryan twitches, he'd been talking about looking forward to seeing the openers, too, and it doesn't look like that's going to happen.

"Hey, sorry, so they're apparently running way behind time, and a bunch of gear looks like it got left somewhere, so no one is very happy right now. We're still fine to come back after the show and get some things figured out, but if we're talking to anyone before they go on, it's going to have to be fast. So I'm gonna have to steal Spencer for a bit and we'll meet you back here after the set."

It's not exactly a request, Bob's kind of a hardass when he needs to be. Brendon shrugs philosophically and squeezes Jon's hand, while Jon just gives Bob his usual easy-going smile.

"No worries," he says, "right here good for after the show? Don't wanna be in the way."

"That's great," Bob says, clearly relieved, and drops one of the laminates over Spencer's head. "Come on, we've only got like ten minutes. I was lucky to even _find_ Frankie, he told me where they're all hiding out."

Spencer follows, although his steps are dragging a little bit. He's nervous -- these are Bob's friends, which is bad enough, because they're probably going to judge him and he knows he doesn't look all that much more than his age right now -- and he's a little worried about how Ryan's going to take this. They've been short with each other all week, yeah, but he knows how much this opportunity has to mean to Ryan, and he feels fucking bad about maybe having that get screwed up. Most people wouldn't have noticed much change in Ryan's expression, but Spencer knows him well enough to have caught the split-second look of unsurprised disappointment. He sneaks a look back over his shoulder as they round a corner into a maze of tiny interconnected rooms, and sees Ryan lean into Jon, sees Brendon's hand come up to cup Ryan's elbow and guide him around some of the cords laid out on the floor and only haphazardly taped down, and, okay, yeah, Ryan'll be fine, he thinks.

"And, in here," Bob says, opening a door that looks just as anonymous as all the others, scraps of old tape around eye-level on the wood, but no actual sign. Maybe Bob's sense of direction is related more to doing this for a couple of years rather than some innate Watcherly ability or training. Bob holds the door for Spencer to step through, and then follows on his heels. And, yeah, there's My Chemical Romance -- Spencer sort of automatically ticks them off in his head, matching names to faces -- sitting down on battered couches, chain-smoking almost to a man, and-

"Bob!" says a compact dark-haired guy with a pair of forearm sleeves, bouncing to his feet and coming towards them with a grin stretching his lips wide. It takes a second or two, and then the guy resolves himself before Spencer's eyes into, of course, Brian Schechter. Brian Schechter who is _grabbing Bob around the neck_ and _kissing him on the mouth_. Spencer doesn't exactly mean to, and he's not dumb, he _knows_ it's a test, but he's not hiding his reaction well. It helps that Bob gets a hand in the middle of Brian's chest and shoves him back with a laugh and a "Dickhead, fine, you proved your point, and he didn't punch you -- not that I'd have stopped him, by the way -- so quit it."

Brian gives Bob one more shit-eating grin and then turns to Spencer, his gaze considering and a lot calmer than Spencer had quite been expecting. He reaches out to shake hands, and there's no ridiculous macho test there, just a solid shake, and then Brian says, "Hi, yeah, sorry, sometimes you just kind of have to fuck with him a bit, don't you?" and Spencer's lips quirk up despite himself. Because, yeah, baiting Bob is way more fun than it should be, generally. Even if he does usually get his revenge more or less spectacularly.

"So, hey, thanks for offering to give us a hand," Brian says, "I guess you know the guys?" and Spencer nods and hopes like hell his face isn't crimson, although he has a sinking feeling he is blushing at least a little.

"We've handled some stuff like this before," Ray says with a self-deprecating shrug, "but it seemed stupid not to take advantage of the pros when we've got them nearby." His smile encompasses both Spencer and Bob, which is nice.

"And we don't exactly know what we're dealing with yet," Gerard adds, fidgeting with his lighter, before dropping it onto the table to run his fingers through his hair, shaking it back out of his eyes. Frank gives him a fond look which seems weirdly familiar to Spencer, and rests his knuckles lightly on Gerard's knee for a moment. He tells himself to focus on what they're saying; maybe they'll have some new information.

"_I_ think we need their help for a reason, anyway," Mikey says placidly from Gerard's other side, agreeing.

"So is there any more news than the last time I spoke to you?" Bob asks, shifting his weight so his hip bumps into Spencer's.

"Not exactly," Gerard answers, "you talked to Mikey again yesterday, yeah?" Bob nods. "So our fearless and peerless manager," Brian flips him off from the corner where he's pouring himself a glass of water, but waves for him to keep talking, "heard from the cops that a couple people came out of the pit at the last show not so conscious and claiming to be missing jewellery that, on reflection, they didn't want to describe too closely, and a couple of guys from one of the other support bands -- they were out on the festival with us, too, we were sharing sound and lighting gear with them -- got in a fight over something that neither of them can remember any more. Got them kicked off the tour, too, which sucks for them. Just a whole lot more of the little things like what we told you. I'd almost think it was a coincidence, but it just feels... hinky."

Bob blinks, frowning, as if something unpleasant has just occurred to him.

"Bob?" Spencer asks, watching him and not the band.

"Something you just said reminded me of something. I can't- fuck, I can't remember. Sorry, you were saying."

Gerard shrugs. "That's kind of all we've got. No evidence, just Mikey's call to you and a whole lot of bad feelings about all this."

"Hey now," Mikey corrects, "not about all of this. I have a weirdly positive feeling about this place, actually." Ray, Gerard and Otter all roll their eyes in perfect unison. Frank is just still kind of vibrating on the seat beside Gerard, fidgeting with his shirtsleeves.

Bob snaps his fingers, then, and says, "That's it! Mikey, you said for me to tell you there's no such thing as coincidence."

Mikey stares blankly at him. "I... shit, Bob, sorry, I have no idea what that means."

Gerard lets his head fall back and starts ticking ideas off on his fingers. "There's no such thing as coincidence, huh... one is coincidence, twice is happenstance, three times is a tradition?"

"Nothing happens three times _on purpose_ on a tour," Otter says quietly, and all of them snicker.

Bob starts to suggest something else, and then the door behind them swings open, and a red-haired woman wearing tight black jeans and a purposeful expression calls, "Twenty minutes, guys, and I've got your in-ears if you want them now."

"Thanks, Juliet," Frank says absently, and Spencer blinks, because he could've sworn he and Gerard had been holding hands a second ago, but now Frank has one cupped around his cigarette and the other scratching his neck. Huh. "We'll be right there."

"We'll talk some more after the show," Bob says, shifting aside so they can file out and finish getting ready.

* * *  
_8.32pm_

"I'm actually going to stay back here," Bob says.

Spencer frowns. Bob wasn't acting unduly distant or embarrassed by them (even though Brendon, at the very least, is kind of embarrassing), so this was... kind of unexpected. "Really?" he asks.

"I think it's for the best."

Spencer frowns a little more.

Bob sighs. "It's just, I bet you have some classmates out there, and I don't think they should see us out together. You know?"

"Yeah, okay," Spencer says. It is a fair point. He just wanted... well.

Bob smiles at him, and it's so sweet, Spencer is compelled to smile back. "I'll see you after the show," he says. "I have to drive you home; what are the odds your mom will be waiting up?"

"High," Spencer sighs. "Yeah, okay, I'll meet you afterwards." He wants to say something else, like maybe tell Bob not to get used to this scene again, but he can't bring himself to do it. As much as Bob has a life away from all this, he looks so comfortable, so natural that Spencer feels sort of bad Bob even quit in the first place. It's hard to keep feeling bad when Bob leans in and kisses him quickly, in front of God and man and his intimidating ex-boyfriend. "Enjoy the show," he says.

"I'd enjoy it more with you," Spencer mutters, but he obediently heads off.

Bob's point is proven when Spencer starts working his way into the pit and literally runs into Cassadee and her band of emo boy minions. He still can't entirely tell them apart, despite having met them all several times. "Spencer!" she squeals, high enough to be heard above the house music, and hugs him. Spencer hadn't really thought they were hugging friends, but that's okay, he can go with it.

"I have to go find my friends," he calls into her ear, gesturing over to where he can see the stupid boyfriendly cluster of Ryan, Brendon and Jon. Yeah, they don't seem to have missed him. "I'll talk to you later, yeah?"

"You should meet up with us after the show!" she says excitedly. "Jersey's having an afterparty, you should _totally_ come!"

"Yeah, maybe," he says vaguely. Doubtful – if he's going to be late and bring more parental wrath down on his head, it's going to be for saving the world, not for high school parties.

* * *  
_11.11pm_

Backstage during breakdown is the type of organised chaos that makes Spencer both nervous that he's going to get in the way somehow, and wildly, desperately jealous. There's probably no way he'll ever get this for himself, the pesky little matter of his mystical destiny making it unlikely he's ever going to be able to play more than baby band local shows, but it sets something humming in his blood all the same. Maybe he was born to be the slayer, but he's also going to be a drummer until kingdom fucking come, or whatever apocalypse gets there first.

Bob is standing with Gerard and Mikey and Brian, chatting easily. Gerard is still pouring sweat, still in his stage clothes, and Frank bounces past, throws a towel at him, and keeps going around a vast pile of amps and stage set and other gear, maybe in pursuit of his own shower (Spencer thinks back to what he knows about My Chemical Romance and mentally corrects that to "a smoke or something to drink") and vanishes again. Ryan, Brendon and Jon are nowhere to be seen -- Spencer kind of thinks they might still be working their way out of the pit; there are definite advantages to being speedy and moving through a crowd by yourself -- and Ray and Otter are sitting on a couple of cases, swinging their feet and shooting the shit. Spencer is definitely going to go fanboy the two of them in a minute -- the drums on the new record are a massive leap forward from the first album, and Ray Toro is, well, _Ray Toro_ and Spencer has some deeply uncool hero worship going on there -- but Bob's just seen him, and Spencer can't help grinning right back as Bob's expression lights up. It's not hugely obvious unless you know him, but Gerard and Brian clearly do, because they stop talking and look over as well.

Spencer joins them a few seconds later, leaning in to Bob's side and hooking his index finger into Bob's pocket. It's kind of stupid, but he wants to touch him, even if he doesn't want to be the guy macking on his boyfriend just to prove a point. That might be Brian's thing, but Spencer is totally going to be the bigger person here.

"Oh, go on then," Gerard says (fucking Gerard Way, seriously, how is this Spencer's life? ...possibly this is the reaction he should have had when Bob told him, he realises) and waves a hand vaguely at Spencer, grinning broadly.

"Pervert," Bob tells him cheerfully, but half-turns and presses his lips to Spencer's anyway, and while this wasn't at all in Spencer's plan, he didn't start it so it's not like it counts, and it's certainly not as if he's going to say no. It's just a quick, light kiss, not really even any tongue, but Bob's teeth tug at Spencer's lower lip for just a fraction of a second as he pulls away, and Spencer knows that he's grinning like an idiot as he tucks himself against Bob's side, Bob's arm around his waist.

"The show was great," Spencer says, to Gerard and Mikey, because he feels like he should totally say something useful rather than just be, like, Bob's boytoy or whatever, and it _was_.

"I'm so glad to hear that," Gerard says, totally sincere, eyes clear and interested as he looks at Spencer, and Mikey just gives him a distracted grin. Brian is doing something on his phone, but there's a quirk to his lips that makes Spencer think he is paying attention as well, and he's finding something funny.

"I mean, the new record is awesome," he goes on, "but live, it's just- it brings a whole other dimension in. I thought it was really cool the way you-" and as if he has no control over his mouth whatsoever, Spencer is off and running on a review of most of the set list, with Bob adding the occasional observation as well. Gerard is acting as if Spencer is someone who actually has a right to be there, and to have an opinion, and it's a little dizzying to receive that level of engagement, especially when there's probably all kinds of people who want to talk to them now as well, and yet there they all still are, knocking back bottles of water and arguing and laughing like they've known each other for years. Ray and Otter get drawn into the discussion -- which is now touching on possible new stage set-ups, horrible tour injuries, and the possibility that the moon landing was a hoax. Brian's just leaning against the wall now, watching quietly, putting in the odd sarcastic comment at the expense of anyone who leaves himself open for it, and Spencer can't believe how _easy_ this is.

Which is probably what gives him the confidence to add, after a furiously-gesticulating discussion of just why Haloes is awesome live (and apparently fun to play -- Spencer is kind of glad, actually, that they're not too big to mess around with cover songs in his garage), "Which reminds me, uh. Is it actually possible that none of you have worked out what Gerard does, yet?"

Ray and Bob had just got done arguing that an even faster tempo would be better, which had Otter and Frank -- who's wormed his way in and attached himself to Gerard -- shaking their heads and jeering, but Spencer's question seems to kill the entire tail end of that conversation dead on the spot.

There's silence, and Gerard, at least, looks kind of poker-faced. Spencer remembers belatedly that there's actually a few things that this band has had to worry about over the years, and supernatural shit is only one of them.

"I mean. Um. Your magic. Thing. Whatever you want to call it."

Gerard just looks confused now. "I don't-" he starts, and Frank says, "Gerard didn't get any of that, it's all Mikey," and Bob is just looking at him like he's nuts, which is basically the same as what everyone else is doing.

Spencer rolls his eyes. Some people are so fucking blind, seriously. He figures it's going to be easier to demonstrate than explain, so he just turns back to Gerard and says, "Tell Bob to- to put Frank's stage shirt on."

Gerard gives him a weird look.

"No, just- just trust me," Spencer says, and it seems to work, because Gerard gives him a dubious look, and then turns to Bob and says boredly, a little mocking, "Bob, put Frank's shirt on."

Bob starts to reach almost on automatic for the shirt, hanging gross and sweaty over the back of a chair, and yanks his hand back just before he touches it.

"What the fuck?" Bob asks, staring at Gerard, and then stopping to glare at Spencer, who is maybe snickering a little. It's not like Bob didn't have a little something coming, at least.

Spencer shrugs.

"No, really, what the _fuck_," Mikey says intensely, and Spencer has to fight a sudden urge to take a step back. Maybe he did presume a little.

"It's his voice," he says, shrugging again. "Or, I don't know, maybe not his voice exactly, but he's- persuasive. Charming." He looks directly at Gerard, who's looking totally weirded out right then. "You tell people to do things and it makes them want to do it. Like, I don't think you could get someone to do anything they didn't want to do,"

"Like touch Frank's disgusting shirt," Bob interrupts, making a grossed-out face, and Spencer nods.

"-yeah, but they'll definitely consider it. I don't think it comes across so strongly in recordings or on video, but- in the show tonight? I kind of couldn't help but notice. So, you know. You didn't miss out entirely on the magic genes."

Gerard is still looking completely pole-axed, as are the rest of his band, and Spencer seriously can't believe that none of them _suspected_. It seems so obvious. Even Bob is staring at him, and he draws Spencer away with a light touch to his elbow, leans in so they can talk privately. The rest of My Chem are still standing around doing their best smacked-in-the-face-with-a-wet-fish impressions, not saying much of anything.

"How did you-" Bob starts to ask, and then shakes his head. "You're the slayer, you notice stuff. I just- shit, you're right, it is so obvious, isn't it? I can't believe I never realised myself."

"Should I not have said-" Spencer starts, suddenly uncertain, because this is probably actually a really horrible thing to do to someone -- to just announce they have some kind of power, in front of almost everyone they know, and what if this screws everything up for them? Spencer is not sure what he'd _do_ if he's ruined someone's life or something.

Bob shrugs easily, shoots a glance at the tight bunch just behind Spencer. "I think they'll be fine. Give everyone a minute to adjust and they'll just start taking advantage–" and it seems like he's right, because Ray's breaking out in a broad grin, punches Gerard's shoulder comfortingly and crows happily, "Hey, Gee, tell Cortez to make out with Brian-" and both Brian and Matt make disgusted faces and go after Ray, and Gerard laughs at them all, while Mikey bumps his shoulder quietly, and Spencer figures, okay, maybe it is okay after all. He does see Frank taking Gerard's hand and squeezing it lightly, but figures maybe that's one of the things he _shouldn't_ actually mention that he's noticed.

"You're kind of a smart ass," Brian says in his ear, a few minutes later, just as Spencer's spotted Ryan dragging his boyfriends over so he can talk to Gerard, clearly determined to make the most of this, and Spencer jumps a little. "It's definitely one of the reasons Bob likes you," Brian says, and gives Spencer an even look, and Spencer is suddenly oddly certain that Brian, at least, knew exactly what Gerard was capable of all this time. He doesn't seem mad, though. Which is nice. Because aside from that whole shoving his tongue down Spencer's boyfriend's throat stunt -- which Spencer thinks really might've been something in the nature of a test, and also, shit, it's _Bob_, like he can blame him -- Brian seems like a pretty decent guy, too.

"Thanks?" he says cautiously, and Brian grins at him. Spencer is acutely aware of at least one of the reasons that Bob used to hit that, too. Shit, Brian has a _really_ nice smile.

"We're good," Brian says, and then adds briskly, "Your friend isn't going to, like, maul any of my guys or anything is he? Because otherwise I think we have to take Bob back as, like, payment." and Spencer laughs and assures Brian that Ryan is largely harmless, or at least he certainly is to over-excited musicians.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * *  
Friday  
* * *  
_7.30am_

Spencer has always been a light sleeper, and it took maybe a month of being a slayer to get used to being fully awake and aware from the moment he wakes up. It's annoying habit to have when one of his sisters gets up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, but it does come in handy at times. He opens his eyes on his birthday and straightaway takes a deep breath to prepare himself for the ordeal he knows is to come.

By the time he's pissed and showered, he thinks he's ready to face his family. His mom is at the stove, making pancakes, and gives him an entirely neutral, "Happy birthday, sweetie," when he slides into his seat. He's been assuming he'll get some horrible comments about being legal now -- god knows he deserves them, and he'll definitely be getting some jokes from Ryan that he's not at all looking forward to -- but his sisters are calmly eating their breakfasts, and his dad smiles before wishing him happy birthday through a mouthful of his own pancakes.

His sisters have gone halves in a shirt he'd been eyeing at the mall - it's wrapped in obnoxiously sparkly paper; Spencer has a feeling they were maybe trying to make a comment there, and graciously overlooks that. His parents have ponied up for a seriously impressive voucher for Guitar Centre, one that has Spencer practically drooling at the possibilities, and he tucks that carefully back into the card before thanking them all and then taking a plate of pancakes from his mom.

Despite stealing a cup of his dad's coffee -- his dad doesn't say anything, but Spencer knows he noticed -- Spencer still winds up kind of yawning his way through breakfast, and he's giving serious thought to actually trying that toothpicks-under-the-eyelids trick to keep his eyes open. They'd got in just barely before his just-this-once curfew the night before, almost at midnight, and given that his parents had been ostentatiously still awake and waiting for them, he hadn't really thought sneaking out to patrol was a good idea until he was absolutely certain they were asleep. Which had meant lying in bed till after one, and then running around the usual route by himself, because they'd figured leaving Bob to go back and snoop around the My Chem camp was the best division of resources they could come up with.

And as a consequence of all that, well, Spencer isn't exactly the most well-rested guy at the table.

No one mentions rings under his eyes or makes any comments about his 'date', which is a plus, and he thinks he might be home free, but he hasn't quite finished his pancakes when his sisters grab their backpacks and head to school.

Ginger sits down beside Spencer just as he's taking one last big, syrupy bite. "Honey," she starts. Spencer knows nothing good ever starts there. "I know you're a legal adult now," she keeps going, "-but as long as you live under this roof, you will follow our rules, is that understood?" Spencer nods. He feels like he might choke, the pancakes are sticking in his throat. "No sleepovers," Ginger says firmly. Spencer nods again and swallows, hard.

That could have been worse. When Ginger grabs Spencer's plate and goes to rinse it off, Jeff takes her spot and slides another wrapped package in front of Spencer. "Happy birthday, Spence," he says. Spencer rips into it carefully, then pushes it away when he catches sight of what's inside. He looks up at his dad, knowing full well his expression is horrified. "Condoms?"

It's some consolation that his dad is looking about as uncomfortable as Spencer's ever seen him. "I just," he says. "I need to know you're being safe, and I looked some advice and stuff up online, and I just. Spencer, you know that there are things you can do other than-"

"Okay, stop there," Spencer says quickly. This is among the worst moments of his life, even counting last month when they had to practically stop, like, a zombie apocalypse.

"Spencer," his dad says, pained. His mom is taking about a year to rinse the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher, clearly eavesdropping, but at least she's staying quiet.

"No, no, I get it, I just. I can take care of myself, and I get if you don't believe it, but I can. And even if – he's a great guy, you don't know the half of it. He can take care of me too." Spencer pauses, because that didn't come out quite like he planned, but. "I promise you don't need to worry about me."

"Uh, yeah, we're going to keep worrying," his dad says.

"Okay," Spencer says, resigned.

"And take the condoms," his mom adds. Spencer's not entirely sure this isn't some parental ploy to embarrass him out of ever having sex again. He's not entirely sure it's not going to _work_, either way.

* * *  
_10.15am_

Spencer ducks into the bathroom after third period and checks his phone again -- half his class will blatantly send texts during classes, but there's stuff on his phone that he'd really rather no one saw, and so he's a little more cautious about getting it confiscated these days than he used to be.

He has messages from Ryan, Jon and Brendon wishing him a happy birthday, none of them overly long or elaborate; he has a feeling any of the teasing that's coming is being saved for in-person deployment. There's nothing from anyone else, and he swallows back disappointment. He wasn't expecting- well, he's not sure what he was expecting, but he's not _upset_ that he hasn't heard from Bob.

He manages to believe that for almost five minutes, too, which is coincidentally the amount of time it takes for his feet to leave him right outside Bob's classroom. He can see from the hall there's no one in there -- Bob has a couple of late classes on the Friday, and that's all. (Spencer didn't at all memorise his schedule as well.) Feeling weirdly disappointed, Spencer turns to head for his next class -- he has gym now, and he's totally going to be late, but one of the benefits of having your Watcher teach at your school is that Spencer has a not-too-rapidly decreasing stash of totally legitimate hall passes, to use at his discretion. If he ever runs short of cash he could probably auction a couple of them off, too, and just live with the ass-kicking when Bob found out.

He's not actually watching where he's going too closely after that, moving on automatic, and so he's only just around the corner from the music department when he literally goes facefirst into Bob, who'd been walking the opposite way.

"Spence-" Bob starts, and then corrects himself. "Spencer. Come in for a minute, I wanted a word," and gestures back to the classroom. Spencer follows him, not at all concerned about being even later for class (seriously, it's gym. He's pretty sure he'll live. And it's not like running laps is so much of a punishment these days, either). He sits down on one of the desks in the front row, swinging his feet and looks up at Bob, who's taken up a similar pose, perched on the edge of his own desk.

"I thought you'd be in the gym," Bob says, looking a little flustered himself, now that Spencer thinks about it. It's possible he's got Spencer's schedule down already, too. They're kind of ridiculous, actually, Spencer thinks, in the very back of his mind, and grins a little.

Spencer shrugs, and then, given the totally deserted classroom, decides to be just a little daring. It's his birthday, he should be allowed something. "I'm meant to be," he says, "but I figure I'm not missing much. You work me harder than they do," and he grins up at Bob, doing his best innocent expression.

To his disappointment, Bob doesn't colour or look even remotely embarrassed. He just laughs, and concedes the point with a wave of his hand. "I was actually looking for you," he says, and keeps going over the top of Spencer's "You were going to get me out of class? _Cool_-" "-I need to get you up to speed on the latest."

Spencer tenses up a bit more; this is unlikely to be good news, at an educated guess.

"But first," Bob slips around the back of the desk, crouching down to dig through his bag. Spencer doesn't even bother to pretend not to be watching. "Happy birthday," Bob says, walking over to press a thin cloth bag into Spencer's hands, a tiny smile playing across his lips, a shadow of the full expression in his eyes.

Spencer tugs the drawstring open cautiously, but he can tell from the shape and weight what it is before the drumsticks fall into his hands. He turns them over a couple of times, but there's no maker's mark; just smooth wood, perfectly balanced for his taste. He looks up expectantly; he's known Bob long and well enough to assume there's something else he's not getting here.

"Special order," Bob tells him. "Just try breaking those ones any time soon."

"You got me magic drumsticks," Spencer says skeptically. "You do remember how well things worked out the last time you gave me a magical present, right?" He raises an eyebrow. This time Bob does go the very faintest shade of pink, and he coughs once before regaining control and shooting Spencer a dirty look.

"These are from somewhere else. Very trustworthy lady, been in the business for years, only puts curses on people who really deserve it." Bob's look suggests that he could see clear to making some exceptions to that rule right now. "Seriously, do I ever get to live that amulet business down?" he complains, sounding far closer to Spencer's age than to the responsible adult he aims to be the majority of the time, and Spencer just laughs and says, "I doubt it. Ryan's sure never letting it go, anyway."

"About which I never want more details," Bob says fervently, and Spencer mutters "No kidding" in complete and utter agreement.

"Anyway," Bob says firmly, in his now-we're-talking-business tone, and Spencer runs his fingers lightly over the drumsticks once more, before slipping them back into the case and into his school bag. "I did a bit more digging last night, talked to some of the other people on the festival circuit and did some more research when I got home," Spencer takes a better look at Bob's face and sees the telltale lines around his eyes, the dark circles that speak of even less sleep than usual, "and I think I have a better idea of what's going on there, at least."

"Shoot," Spencer says, and looks up at the clock above the whiteboard. He's got about twenty minutes left of this period. At this point, he may as well just plan to cut until his algebra class anyway.

"It seems like there's been a bit of a spike lately in supernatural crime. Not the sort of thing that the cops would be likely to pick up on, but thefts all over the place, antiquities with weird reputations and some magical artifacts from people who should've had them protected better. And the timing is... suspiciously close to when Trickfest has been playing in the nearby cities."

Spencer nods. He doesn't actually need to be Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together there.

"And even for a music festival, there's been a higher than normal amount of, well, not-normal people on the crew. In the bands. Jon's friends notwithstanding, and I think they were a late addition anyway. It sort of stinks, and Brian's kicking himself for not figuring that much out sooner himself. And like we already knew, a lot of them have had bits of their kit gone missing, or had people wake up missing a couple hours time. Someone on that tour is up to something, and we're going to find out who." Bob sounds determined, his jaw set.

"So what you're saying is that we're getting festival tickets for free, but we have to spend the whole time playing Hardy Boys and not actually see any of the bands."

"Yep," Bob says cheerfully. "Your lives are so very difficult. Brian'll get the passes to the gate for us, and- can you get out for a bit this afternoon? We should do some more training before Jon and the others come over to work on a strategy for tomorrow, but I didn't know if you had plans with your folks...?"

"Nope, no plans," Spencer says. He's pretty sure his mom is going to insist on a family dinner out on Sunday or something, though. "I'll ditch my stuff at home and then be over as soon as I can get away. Sound okay?"

"It's a plan," Bob says, and then they're just looking at each other, and it's... suddenly awkward.

"Thank you for the present," Spencer says, because he does really appreciate it, and because his mom raised him to be polite.

"There's another part to it," Bob says, voice low and warm, and Spencer can feel himself swaying forward a little on pure autopilot. "But I'm going to have to give it to you later."

"Really," Spencer says, slinking forward. Reckless. He corners Bob on the desk, his hands either side of Bob's knees, their faces on a level. They have to be visible from the door, he knows that, and there's no way this would look good, but he doesn't fucking _care_. He can see -- can hear Bob swallow hard.

"Later," Bob repeats, firmly, and lifts one hand to push Spencer back, palm gentle on his shoulder. Spencer goes, with a sigh -- being a grown up is totally fucking overrated.

"See you tonight," Bob says, as Spencer opens the door, and tries not to look as if he's actually checking the hall in both directions before he steps out, and Spencer waves, smiles, and starts a mental countdown clock of the hours until he gets some make-out time with Bob. He's pretty sure he can leverage not beating Bob up while they're sparring for kissing.

Spencer heads for algebra with a number that is far higher than he'd like sitting in the forefront of his mind.

* * *  
_12.05_

Class is, possibly, slower and more boring than it has ever been before in Spencer's _life_.

He taps his pen on the desk in time with his foot, miming the kick drum and the occasional wrist flick for the snare or toms, and manages to mentally play his way through half of Third Eye Blind's last album before he catches a stern look from his teacher and an invitation to come up and solve for X on the board.

Spencer manages not to embarrass himself, but for all he cares right now, X can go fuck itself. He's pretty sure some of that attitude is bleeding out into his body language, because Mr Ferris just points back at his seat with a gesture that is unmistakeably 'sit down and shut up'. Spencer does.

He's meant to have lunch after this class, but he's kind of itchy inside his own skin right now, and it's his _birthday_, and that conversation with Bob earlier was not as satisfying as it could've been. Not by a long shot.

Spencer plays out a brief fantasy of how much more interesting his morning could have been -- score one for teenage libido, looks like his parents haven't managed to kill his off entirely -- and lets the unsolved problems in his workbook pile up unattended.

And- fuck it, actually. The more Spencer thinks about it, the more tempted he is. He's usually a good student, slaying hasn't destroyed his grades too badly, most of his teachers seem to like him, and, okay, sure, the first week back is probably a little early for senioritis to hit, but. He really doesn't want to spend the afternoon stuck in class. Or at least, he wants to get out for a couple of hours. He's going to be stuck in training all afternoon, and then he has to be home early, under low-grade house arrest more or less, and then sneak out later to patrol; he wants some time for himself.

Actually, what he wants is some time with Bob. Bob who lives nearby, Bob who nearly broke his own rules this morning to touch Spencer at school; Spencer could see it in his eyes and maybe if he'd been brave (stupid) enough to have pushed back harder, it might've actually happened. Spencer's not quite reckless enough to seriously consider trying anything at school -- the consequences of picking the wrong utility closet or failing to lock a classroom door are kind of horrifying all out of proportion to how he's aching to get to do more than look -- but cutting lunch? That's definitely inside his skill set.

He slides his phone out of his pocket and fakes attention on what's going on in class while he types, glancing down right before the end of class to double check that the predictive text hasn't set anything too awry.

_its "later" now. off campus fr lunch. u should go home for yrs._

He doesn't think it's too subtle -- Bob's a smart guy -- and he hits 'send' just as the bell rings.

Spencer swoops down, hooks his bag over one shoulder, and takes off through the halls at a run. If he gets out of the grounds without any trouble he can be at Bob's house in five minutes. And he knows where the spare key is.

* * *  
_12.27pm_

Bob thinks he should probably be embarrassed about the fact that he's out the school gates and halfway home before he really stops to debate the wisdom of that move with himself. He doesn't run any red lights -- although it's close -- but he does manage to shave a minute or two off his usual travel time.

Spencer has, of course, managed to beat him there anyway.

Bob would love to be able to persuade himself that he's only doing this because he doesn't want to leave Spencer standing on his doorstep in the middle of the school day, and just think of the questions _that_ could raise, but he's never been that good at lying to himself. He's also vastly underestimated the innate slayer resourcefulness, because when he does get inside, tossing his keys onto the counter and dumping his bag by the door, Spencer's actually already on his couch.

"I think this could be considered breaking and entering," Bob jokes uneasily, because Spencer's not just on his couch, Spencer's _sprawled_ on the couch, his legs spread and his jeans loose around his hips, his shirt casually rucked up to flash a pale sliver of skin at his side; the lean cut of muscle above his pelvis and the curve of his hip. Bob can feel his breathing speed up, his body reacting to the suggestive pose with Pavlovian simplicity.

"I had your key," Spencer shrugs, and then stretches just so, eyes drifting closed as he hooks his hands above his head, arches his back.

"This is the worst idea in the _world_," Bob promises him, but his feet are taking him closer rather than back to the door and hey, look at that, it seems like he's made his decision after all.

"It's my birthday," Spencer says stubbornly, eyes slitting open, catching Bob's gaze and not giving an inch. "We have to be mature and responsible later and I've hardly seen you this week," _when we weren't fighting_, Bob corrects in the privacy of his own head, "and I miss you."

Bob kind of feels himself melt a little at that. God knows he's missed Spencer, too.

"Also," Spencer goes on, "as people have been taking pains to remind me, this is legal now," maybe Bob hasn't missed Spencer that much, Jesus, he could do without being reminded of his shitty lack of willpower and ethics quite so often, "and so I'd kind of like it a lot if you could just fuck me now."

Bob stares.

They've had sex, sure, kind of a lot of it, actually, but they haven't done that very often, and Bob's still pretty much used to being on the bottom most of the time, if for no other reason than it's easier when neither of them has to worry quite so much about taking it slow. Slow is not something they're good at. Having the leisure to take things slow is also not exactly a regular feature of their sex life.

"We've got, like, thirty minutes," Spencer says practically, reading Bob's look with no difficulty whatsoever. "You should maybe get a move on."

"Spence," Bob starts, because okay, yeah, Spencer said they were good, and things were a lot more like normal at the show last night and all, too, but they still haven't exactly talked about a lot of things, and, "I don't know if this is-"

"Your dick. My ass." Spencer insists, and looks up through his lashes at Bob. Fuck, his resolve is crumbling at top speed now. Bob likes getting fucked, loves how Spencer feels inside him, basically figured from the second he walked out of his classroom that he was going to cave, and sex with Spencer was going to happen, no matter how much he might be dragging his heels now, but he also really, really likes the idea of Spencer riding him, of his fingers and his cock inside Spencer. It's not what they normally do, but maybe that makes it a better idea. A slightly fresher start.

Okay, essentially he's probably being incredibly stupid, but he'll challenge anyone to spend this much time thinking about sex with Spencer and make sane, rational decisions at the end of it all. It's a complete rationalization and Bob is not proud, but- hell, he's going to get laid, in the middle of the day on a Friday with his extremely hot, no longer jailbait boyfriend. He can wrestle with his conscience about all of this later.

* * *  
_12.35pm_

Spencer pulls his t-shirt off. He watches as Bob blinks at him (a little stupidly, which is totally endearing -- Spencer is so gone), giving him a moment before saying "No, seriously, we don't have a lot of time here."

"Right," Bob says, fumbling with his shirt buttons as he turns towards the short hallway to the bathroom. Spencer takes the opportunity to kick off his shoes, pull off his socks and jeans so he's just in his boxers, and lean back against Bob's ancient couch in a way he hopes looks seductive and not just stupidly posed. Bob's practically brandishing the lube and condoms when he gets back, and he's also managed to ditch his footwear so he's just wearing his work jeans and an open Oxford shirt. Bob drops the supplies haphazardly beside Spencer on the couch, and Spencer has just enough time to hope they won't get lost somewhere in the cushions before Bob is straddling him, hands on his sides and mouth on his jaw. Spencer practically yanks at Bob's hair to move him, getting their mouths lined up so they can kiss properly.

Bob gets some leverage on Spencer's hips and manhandles him so he's lying across the couch. Bob is on top of him, knees planted on either side of one of Spencer's legs. "Okay?" Bob asks against Spencer's mouth.

It's sort of -- the couch is really itchy against Spencer's bare back, but Bob's thigh is creeping up and Spencer _knows_ it's going to be pressing against his cock any moment now. "Yeah, yeah," Spencer says, already breathless, trying to push Bob's shirt down his arms. "Come on, clothes off."

Bob lets Spencer take his shirt off as he undoes his jeans, one-handed, balancing on one elbow. "You too," he says, fisting Spencer's cock loosely through the cotton of his boxers.

It takes some maneuvering for them to both get naked, and if Spencer thought the upholstery was bad against his back, it's almost torture against his ass. But then Bob is grasping for the lube with one hand and hiking Spencer's knees over his shoulders with the other, and it's better. Spencer can focus instead on Bob's fingers, slicking over his hole. Bob's being nice and slow and gentle, stretching him, which Spencer would normally appreciate. They're in kind of a rush, though, no chance to take their time, and Spencer knows he's probably not quite ready when he says "Now, fuck me now, Bob."

Bob reaches behind himself and grabs a condom package, but his hands are slippery and he gives it to Spencer after a second of struggling. Spencer rolls it a bit awkwardly onto Bob's cock -- it's a weird angle, but he can't help but tease them both a little, stroking Bob briefly before saying "Now, seriously, now, please."

Spencer's erection flags as Bob pushes into him. He has no room to move, to rock properly against Bob, but he can't help wriggling restlessly. "Hold still," Bob chokes out. When Spencer keeps squirming, Bob gives him a light slap to the hip. It's startling, but not especially a turn-on -- that is, given that Spencer is currently naked with his super-hot boyfriend and basically everything seems like a turn-on right now. Spencer has the presence of mind to be glad he doesn't have an undiscovered pain kink, it would make his after-school job pretty unbearable. Not, okay, that he's never gotten hard while sparring with Bob. He's only human.

"I think this worked better last time," Spencer says.

"No, you think?" Bob says, sounding almost pained. "Quit the fuck moving, or pick a _bed_ for this next time." He leans down and pushes his tongue into Spencer's mouth. It might largely be to shut Spencer up, but that's fine, he can work with that.

They can kiss fairly easily in this position -- Spencer's fucking _flexible_, comes with the territory -- and between that and Bob angling up right to hit his prostate, Spencer gets back to full hardness easily. The stretch feels good, and so do Bob's rough thighs against Spencer's ass when he pushes all the way in. Their hips are flush and Bob's body is pressing his into the couch, the springs creakingas they're prone to do, and they both freeze like that for a moment, as Bob threads his fingers through Spencer's, and then starts moving. For a few seconds, a few thrusts, it's getting really good, and there's a cracking noise and suddenly Spencer has a bruised tailbone and is staring up at Bob's ugly heirloom coffee table.

"What the fuck," Bob says, and Spencer can't stop himself laughing. They've slid a little painfully into the middle of the couch, which is sagging ridiculously low to the ground. "Your stupid couch broke," Spencer says. "I fucking hate this thing."

"Yeah, okay," Bob says. "I think we're done here." He reaches back and Spencer feels a light touch against his ass before realising that Bob is holding onto the condom and pulling out.

Spencer digs his heels into Bob's back as best he can and says through gritted teeth "What the fuck, don't stop, what are you doing?"

Bob stills. "I figured," he says, and then "I think the mood's kind of ruined, don't you?"

Spencer clenches deliberately around Bob. "You're still hard, the mood is fine, keep fucking me, please," he says desperately.

Bob takes Spencer at his word, but maybe he'd been onto something there, because this isn't really working for Spencer. He's gotten off on getting fucked before, and it still feels good, except that some broken springs are poking his back through the cushions, and he's having to brace muscles he barely knew he had to keep from sinking any further into where the couch is drooping in the middle. He wants to reach in between them to jerk himself off, but Bob won't let go of his hand, and he's using the other one for balance -- Spencer's half-convinced they're falling right off the couch next.

It doesn't take very long for Bob to finish, but Spencer's not even particularly close. He feels frustrated when Bob pulls out, wants to say something, but before he can, Bob says "Hey, you didn't-" and sort of rolls off the couch to kneel beside it. He drops his mouth onto Spencer's cock without hesitation. Spencer's only human, this is _definitely_ working for him; moreso when Bob grabs onto his hips and tilts them so he can slide two fingers inside. It doesn't take long after that. Spencer lets his eyes close, bucks up into Bob's mouth and comes, finally.

Bob doesn't move right away, kneeling and breathing heavily, even though Spencer knows it can't be the most comfortable position ever. It's a minute or two before Spencer wants to move, too, but he sits up properly, finally, and tugs on Bob's shoulder. "That... was not our best ever," he says apologetically.

Bob gets to his feet and rolls his shoulders back until Spencer hears a muffled crack. "It's a judgment on me," he says. "Doing this at lunch, Christ."

Spencer stands, too, pressing against Bob just a little bit. "No, I think the couch is a judgment on you." It looks pathetic from this perspective, limp and noticeably concave.

"Don't remind me," Bob sighs. "I really liked that couch." And then his hand catches Spencer's jaw, gentle and warm. "Hey, you're not- I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," Spencer says, trying not to shiver, and trying not to feel dumb that he wants to. It's been months, but he still reacts like this to Bob pretty much all of the time. "But we should probably-"

"Yeah. You shouldn't miss any more classes." But Bob leans down and kisses him anyway. "We should try this again tonight," he murmurs, eyes hot.

"Definitely," Spencer says. He'll have to figure out how to get away from his parents, and they'll both be tired after patrol, but. Sex with Bob is pretty great even when it's bad. They'll figure it out.

* * *  
_3:14pm_

Spencer sags down but manages to not reflexively go for a stake when he feels an unexpected weight hanging from his shoulders. "Hey, Spence," Cassadee says into his ear, laughing a little. "You're really strong, did you know that? So I hear it's your birthday."

"How did you-"

"I stalked you," she interrupts, sounding unconcerned. "I did a semester as an office aide last year, all that information is in the computer."

Spencer furrows his brow as he bends to let her down, but doesn't ask. He's pretty sure he's seen this on an episode of Veronica Mars. "Well," he says. "Yeah."

"Let me buy you a smoothie! Since you ditched us for lunch, and all. There's this awesome place a few blocks away, they do this kickass banana-cream-pie shake thing, too, you gotta try it."

His parents have downgraded Spencer from "grounded" to "very early curfew" -- they are pretty terrible at sticking to their guns -- but he is meant to be meeting everyone at Bob's when he can get there. "Okay, but quickly," he says.

"Yay!" Cass says, grabbing his wrist to drag him. Spencer would wonder how he got mixed up with someone who actually says "yay," but he's known Brendon a while now.

He manages to tug his hand out of Cassadee's discreetly as they set off – Bob's probably still at the school, and it would just not do for Bob to see Spencer holding hands with a girl, his reaction would be a toss-up between jealousy and hysterical laughter – and it doesn't take long for him to realise where they're going.

"Spencer!" Brendon says, alone and bouncing behind the counter when they arrive at the Smoothie Hut. "I didn't know you were coming in, hi, happy birthday!" It's obvious when he notices Cassadee, his eyes widen and he stutters momentarily. "Uh, hi, I'm, I'm Brendon," and he reaches his arm out over the wide counter to shake hands. Of course he does, Spencer thinks. More of Brendon's upbringing has stayed with him than he likes to admit.

"Hi!" Cassadee chirps, taking his hand but doing some sort of complicated high-five gesture that makes Spencer sigh, but that Brendon gets instinctively.

"This is Cassadee," Spencer says, and then, "Brendon's in my band."

"Awesome!" Cass says. "You guys are good, I thought you looked familiar. Are you playing any shows any time soon?"

Brendon and Spencer exchange a look. "We're pretty busy," Brendon says carefully. "With school, and stuff. Spence, you're going to... study group tonight, right?"

It's all right as a code, but Spencer has to keep from rolling his eyes at how much Brendon fails at subtle. "Yeah, of course," he says. He couldn't really miss slaying research even if he wanted to.

"I'm going to be late, my flaky co-worker is late coming back from his break and absolutely has to leave early again-" Brendon does roll his eyes, so hard it's practically audible "-so let everyone know I'll be there after we close?"

"Yeah, totally," Spencer says. "Look, I think we're going to-" He gestures over to the tables.

"Oh, yeah!" Brendon says. "What do you guys want?"

Cassadee leads Spencer over to one of the far tables when their smoothies are ready. Spencer can see the counter in his peripheral vision, and Brendon waves and makes faces a few times, but Spencer's more interested in the way that the flaky co-worker, finally back, seems to be watching them. He's so busy staring that he almost walks straight into Brendon, catches himself just in time with one hand flailing out. It's probably Cassadee, Spencer figures, she's kind of... attention-getting. With the perky and the hot -- he's taken, not blind -- and the Brendon-like lack of volume control when she gets excited. Probably he shouldn't let her and Brendon hang out too often, it could precipitate the end times. And he's heard so many bad things about apocalypses at this point...

After they leave, Spencer thinks he sees one of the MCR crew shirts on someone standing at the other end of the strip mall. He turns to look, tugging his hand free of Cass' as he does so, feels something bite into his neck, and blacks out.

* * *  
_7.49pm_

Spencer wakes up groggily, uncomfortable and confused. It takes him a couple moments to figure out where he is, which is – sitting on a concrete floor. With his arms behind his back, handcuffed to something, a pole or something. "This is not good," he breathes. Willing himself to alertness, he looks around the room: pretty bare bones, probably a basement or something judging by the exposed beams in the ceiling and the one tiny window high up on the opposite wall. There's nothing within reach – even if Spencer stretched as far as possible and had, like, prehensile toes – but some stuff jumbled in piles on the other side of the room. Nothing at all close to him, except – "Motherfuck," he says, almost certainly too loud.

Cassadee is at his left, handcuffed to some pipes against the wall. She stirs a little bit. "Cass," Spencer says. And then "Cassadee!" in a shout, because he really doesn't want to be alone here, pussy as that may be. Yeah, he has training and stuff, but vampires aren't big on locking people in basements. He and Bob haven't exactly gone over this type of situation, and the only option Spencer can think of is breaking his own hand to squeeze it out of the cuffs.

He'll hold that option in reserve.

"Cass!" he yells again, but she's definitely still out of it. Maybe she got a stronger dose of whatever that shit was, or maybe it's just that she's smaller, or maybe slayer powers include idiosyncratic drug reactions – whatever. Spencer blinks hard, and thinks he feels mostly like himself again.

Since Cassadee's a lost cause, he shifts focus to the stuff stacked messily against the parallel wall, which is – shit. A whole bunch of stuff that screams 'mystical artifact', right down to the ominously curling symbols on the carved wooden boxes three feet from his face. They would get kidnapped by some kind of crazy magic-using klepto with a taste for the dark side. Spencer wonders when he turned into a walking urban fantasy cliché.

He hears a clanking sound to his right, twists to see. "What the hell?" he hears. There's a door, and a redheaded woman in a tight Metallica t-shirt in the doorway.

"What the hell?" Spencer echoes.

The woman frowns. "You shouldn't be awake yet," she says. "That stuff should have knocked you out another hour, at least."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Spencer says, possibly snarkier than he should be to the person who has him handcuffed in a basement, what the fuck.

She shrugs. "Whatever, this place is soundproofed, you can yell all the fuck you like."

Spencer levels his very best glare at her. He imagines it isn't very effective from this position. "Who even – didn't I see you at the concert last night? What are you, like, the sound guy or something?"

She frowns. "I don't know why you were in there before the show, but they can't do anything to help you, okay? I need you and no one's going to fuck it up." And then she kicks him in the stomach, which, ow, fuck. Spencer has a pretty high pain tolerance, but it's way worse when he can't do anything to fight back except sort of flail his legs around awkwardly. He makes contact, but not with nearly enough momentum to have an impact.

"What do you want from me?" he yells when he manages to get his breath back, because why the hell not, right? Yelling won't do any good but it sort of makes him feel better.

The woman, fuck, Spencer doesn't even know her name – she grins, toothily. "You're the bait," she says, and leaves, slamming the door behind her.

Spencer slumps, looks over at Cassadee who's still prone. "Fuck."

* * *  
_8.19pm_

Spencer doesn't show up and doesn't show up and doesn't answer his cell phone, and Bob gets more and more worried. He tries not to show it. He doesn't want to look like the overprotective boyfriend guy – he doesn't want to be that guy either, but he especially doesn't want to look like it after spending so much time and energy trying to convince people (Brian) that Spencer is mature and responsible and doesn't need someone to protect him.

"When do we call it?" Jon asks in a low voice. "What do we do now?" His face looks pinched, and it's probably as much to do with their reactions as it is to Spencer's apparent disappearance – Ryan looks flatter than Bob would have thought possible for a human being, and he knows he's doing a bad job maintaining his own poker face. It's almost four hours past when Spencer was due to be there and Jon's been here for most of that time, his own anxiety feeding off Bob's. Ryan hasn't said a word in the last two hours, not since he showed up and found out what was happening.

Four hours and three minutes after Spencer was supposed to be training, Bob snaps. He's got resources most Watchers wouldn't, and he's damned if he's not going to use them.

Bob turns to Jon and presses his lips together. "What are the odds you could find him?"

Jon shakes his head. "I don't know. He's distinctive, at least, but there's a lot – I really don't know how likely it is." Jon looks sick, and Bob knows he's wishing he had a better answer. Not the for the first time, he entertains a brief and satisfying fantasy of getting some kind of marker to plant on Spencer, maybe hook it up to his phone somehow. He knows magicians, there's got to be a way to do it. ...that doesn't make him seem creepy. Which doesn't help them at all right now, and he forces himself to stop thinking of what he should've done differently and the contingency plans they don't have and concentrate on what they could do.

"Can you get your guys on it too?"

"Probably? They're sort of focused on finding this unicorn, though. I think I can convince them."

"Please," Bob says, and he knows he's losing the battle to try to stay calm. "We need him back."

There's a rattle at the door, and all three of them straighten up as if they've been cattle-prodded. "Spence?" Bob calls, can't help himself. He's kind of hanging on by his fingernails right now, and this, this is exactly why Watchers are never, ever supposed to feel this way about their slayers. Although he wonders how it's any better if the relationship is paternal or even just platonic. The Watcher's council, he thinks, not for the first time, are full of so much shit.

He's still holding his breath as the door slams, tries not to sigh audibly when Jon frowns and then shakes his head, saying "Sorry, it's- Brendon's here."

* * *  
_8.27pm_

Brendon lets himself into Bob's house loudly, letting the door slam behind him. "Spence?" he hears Bob call from the other room.

"No, it's Brendon," he calls back, pulling his shoes off. Jon is anti-shoe, surprisingly vehement about it, and encourages Brendon to go barefoot whenever possible. He tries to encourage Ryan, too, but Ryan actually likes shoes almost as much as Spencer and refuses to go along with it. "Spencer's not here yet?" he asks, going into the living room. "He said he would be."

"You've seen him?" Ryan asks, curled into Jon on the couch opposite where Bob is sitting, with intensely straight posture, in what Brendon knows is the least comfortable chair in the room.

"Yeah, he came in for a smoothie," Brendon says, leaning on Jon's other side. It's pretty easy to do, actually; the couch is kind of fucked and has a distinct lean that Brendon doesn't remember from last time they'd wound up visiting. "He was with some girl, Cass-something."

Bob, impossibly, sits up even straighter. "Small, streaked hair?" he asks.

"That's her."

"She was helping him do research in the library earlier this week." Bob is frowning pretty hard. "I don't trust her."

Brendon opens his mouth to say that she looked pretty harmless to him -- even he could probably take her. Not that he's bad at fighting or anything, just. Physics is generally not on his side. -- and then realises that Jon has gone absolutely rigid against him, pupils huge and he's growling. Ryan's staring as well, distracted from his worry about Spencer, a look of total incomprehension on his face.

"Jon?" Brendon asks, edging away. It's not that he doesn't trust Jon or anything, but it looks like Jon needs to chill the fuck out and it seems like Brendon being all up in his space is not helping.

Jon snarls under his breath and grabs at Brendon, yanking him off balance, nosing at his neck.

"Jon? I don't think this is really the time-" Bob starts, looking seriously pissed, and then he seems to register Jon's actual expression and rocks back on his heels.

"Sorry, sorry," Jon is muttering into Brendon's neck, but his teeth are dragging across Brendon's collar and his nose is kind of cold pressed into his ear and it tickles. His hand is still clamped around Brendon's arm, fingers biting in at the pulse point, and he pulls Brendon's arm up to his mouth, nuzzling at the skin on the inside of his wrist before licking deliberately at his forearm. It's kind of alien -- Jon's a little possessive of them at times, sure, but he's doesn't usually show it, and especially not so overtly.

"Jon?" Ryan chimes in, getting his hands on Brendon as well, peeling Jon's fingers off his arm one by one. Jon doesn't fight him on it at all, just slumps forward, buries his face in Brendon's hair. He's shaking, Brendon realises, and goes cold all over when he realises it's with anger; Jon's eyes are huge and dark and his fingers are twitching.

"I'm sorry," Jon repeats hollowly, "it's just- Brendon, you smell like him, the other wolf, it's really faint, but he had his hands on you," and Jon has to stop for a second, fighting for control, torn between fear and anger.

Brendon's stunned wordless for a minute, and then it starts to fall into place in his head. He went straight to work from school, Jon's never reacted like this to him after school, normally he showers after work, Jon has never finished his own job in time to visit Brendon at the Smoothie Hut, and the only person who'd touched Brendon in the last hour or two was Ed.

"Ed's a werewolf," Brendon says, his own eyes wide, because- shit, that would kind of explain a lot, like why he hates taking out the garbage and why he has a few days off every month and why he turns up late to so many shifts and is kind of an asshole sometimes, and- "Ed's a werewolf, and he was watching Spencer and then he called someone."

"Brendon," Bob says, very, very calmly, and Brendon didn't even see him move, because Bob is fucking looming over the couch now, and Brendon has a sudden visceral appreciation of just what people mean when they talk about masks of rage, because frankly Brendon wouldn't be surprised right now if Bob could kill someone with his brain, "do you know where Ed lives?"

Brendon shakes his head, distantly aware that Jon is, somewhat apologetically, kind of nibbling at his neck again. It doesn't hurt and it's not distracting enough that he can't think so he just rolls with it. "No idea. But we can find out."

He shifts enough to get his keys out of his pocket, and jingles them meaningfully. "I know the combination to get into the manager's office."

Bob practically hits warp speed getting to the door.

* * *  
_8:54pm_

When Cassadee wakes up it's slowly, mumbling and shifting restlessly. "Cass," Spencer says, poking her leg with his toe. "Cassadee, come on, wake up."

"Huh?" she says, and he can see her eyes are open. "What – Spencer? Why are you, where are we?"

"We're." Spencer sighs. He's had a bit of time to get, well, used to it, and he's used to weird shit all around. "We sort of got kidnapped."

"We got – what?" And then Cassadee screams. It's really only to be expected, but Spencer winces, because damn, she is loud.

"That's not going to work," he says resignedly. "I tried it, the place is soundproofed." He thinks magically, he knows it can be done, but it would be nice if they could get out of this with his cover remotely intact.

"I didn't hear you."

"We got drugged. I don't know how long we've been here, I can't – can you read my watch?" He twists his wrist, a little painfully, hoping the watch face is pointed at her.

"Yeah, it's – it's almost nine." Cassadee's voice is trembling.

"Okay." Spencer takes a deep breath, does the mental math. "So it's been about four hours. Someone will have noticed by now –"

"My parents won't notice till the morning," Cassadee says. "And – they won't think it's weird if I'm not there, it'll take them a while, oh god." Her voice rises towards the end. It sounds like she might hyperventilate or something, and it really wouldn't help the situation if she knocked herself out or whatever. Spencer refuses to let himself think about what his parents will be thinking; he's meant to be home in an hour and it doesn't look like that's going to happen. He can't stand to think how they're going to worry. Who they're going to blame. Fuck. No, he needs to stay focused.

"Hey, hey, shh," Spencer says. "I need you to stay calm, okay? It's going to be okay. My friends will have missed me, I know it, and they'll be looking for us."

Cass tilts her head to him and shoots him an are you fucking serious? look. It's actually kind of reassuring, she may not be freaking out as badly as he'd feared. "Okay, unless your friends are like a SWAT team, I think we're pretty much boned."

"You'd be surprised," Spencer says grimly. He wouldn't bet on Ryan or Brendon against even a pretty shitty kidnapper, not alone, but Jon is kind of scarily intuitive and My Chem sound like they've done stuff like this before.

Plus Bob. Spencer would bet on Bob against basically every kidnapper out there.

"Uh-huh, sure," Cassadee says. Her breathing has calmed down a lot.

"Look, you just need to trust me. I'll get us out of this."

Now she looks really skeptical, and more than a little pissed. Spencer would way rather she was pissed than scared.

"What, we get drugged and kidnapped and fucking handcuffed and you think you can get us out of this? Spencer, you're a high school senior, you're not a ninja, you're not a fucking superhero, and just because you're a guy you are not more able to handle this than me. What the fuck."

She has a point, or would, if Spencer wasn't actually sort of a superhero. "It's not that, it's just, I really need you to trust me here. This might be my fault and I will get us out of this."

Cassadee glares at him and pushes forward, straining against the cuffs. "Okay, ow," she says, slumping back after a minute. "That really hurts."

Spencer knows, he'd tried it himself, and for a lot longer. He knows his wrists are going to be bruised at the very least. "I don't suppose you could, like, make a lockpick from your bra or something?"

She blinks at him. "Are you retarded?" she asks. "I'm not Nancy Drew, I'm not MacGyver, and I can't reach my bra. You are the worst person I have ever been kidnapped with."

* * *  
_8.55pm_

Brendon had broken them into the office at the Smoothie Hut with the minimum of fuss, booted up the computer and retrieved Ed's address inside of a minute. They'd left Jon outside because he'd started getting seriously twitchy four feet inside the door, and no one wanted him to knock anything over or wind up causing a scene when they were technically trespassing, and only because people who broke and entered didn't usually have the alarm code. Ryan had stayed with him, partly because holding his hand seemed like something actually helpful he could do right then, and also because illegal searches didn't exactly need an entire horde, especially when you knew what you were looking for.

Brendon locks up again behind himself, setting the alarm conscientiously and patting the door after he's checked it's closed properly. Ryan hides a smile at that, and then looks back at Bob, who's wedged in the driver's seat waiting for them all with barely concealed patience.

"Are we sure Spencer's actually missing?" Ryan ventures, when they're halfway to the Eastland Heights address Ed had on file. "Like, he might just be... held up somewhere," he finishes lamely. Out loud, it sounds a lot dumber than it had in his head. Spencer is responsible, Spencer checks in, Spencer checks his phone and also, unlike the rest of them, charges it regularly.

"I'm calling Tom," Jon announces, and starts dialing.

"Are you sure-?" Bob asks, and "Yes," Jon interrupts, definitely. "He's a werewolf, and I'm the only one here who could really slow him down if we don't have Spencer. We need backup." His free hand is still holding Ryan's so tight his fingers are going white.

* * *  
_9.20pm_

It doesn't take Tom and the other guys much time at all to join them once Jon gives them the address and a terse summary of what's going on. They park down the end of the street and huddle around Bob's car to come up with a plan of attack. Looking at the way they move, the coiled menace of so many fit, smart, predators lurking in the dark, Brendon's a little shocked that no one's called the cops yet.

And after all their hurried planning, all of this stress and drama, it's surprisingly anti-climactic and over in less than five minutes.

Brendon volunteers to knock on the door -- if Ed's home, he'll recognise him, and hopefully he won't immediately suspect anything. Brendon's been careful not to get too close to any of the other guys yet, just in case.

He knocks, there's the sound of a TV blaring through the door, and then footsteps. Brendon's stomach knots up, and he can feel his hands shaking; normally when they're in danger they don't get any warning or time to think about it. This is horrible.

Ed opens the door, and gets as far as, "What–" before Bob barrels past him, shoving Ed back into the house and onto the ground, the door swinging open as Brendon steps aside so all the others can get inside from their hiding positions downwind.

"What did you do with Spencer?" Bob asks, cold with rage, his fists clenched in Ed's shirt, and Ed starts to say, "I don't know what you're-" and then he kind of shimmers and bucks, and Bob goes flying, rolling off and into the wall, and Brendon digs his fingernails into his palms, because Ed's changing and it's kind of gross to watch even if you like the person doing it.

He gets all of half a growl out before a seething mass of fur and growl hurtles through the door and onto him. And then another, and then another, and another. A violent fight erupts briefly on the living room floor, bodies rolling around and knocking things over, and Brendon's not certain but he thinks maybe they're all getting in each other's way a bit, too, which could be bad, but then there's about thirty more seconds of nauseatingly cartoon-style wholesale destruction, and then the mess separates out into five naked guys sprawled on the floor panting. Even with changing back, Jon still has one knee planted in the small of Ed's back, his arm twisted up behind him, and Sean, Tom and Al have all backed off a little, although they're still watchful, ready. Ed seems to have given up, bleeding from shallow scratches along his flanks and coughing in a way that sounds wet and strained. Jon doesn't shift an inch.

"Where?" Jon repeats, and Ed's head hangs down, defeated and bitter.

"There's this woman, Savanti, I ran into her the other night-"

"Faster," Bob growls, sitting up against the wall and rubbing his shoulder. Brendon winces sympathetically.

"We established that we had some mutual interests, while out on the town," and there's an ugly curl of pleasure as he says that which makes Brendon damn sure that he doesn't want to know the details; Ed hisses as Jon does something, "and I let her know I might be able to track down a certain young slayer who she was looking for. Maybe give her a bit more of a line on that unicorn that's been hiding out, too. Not sure which part made her happier. You can do some lovely things with unicorn gut, apparently."

"How did you know who he was?" Sean asks, eyes hard.

Ed snorts, and then coughs again, trying to shift under Jon's hands, testing. "Oh, come on. It wasn't difficult. He-" he looks significantly at Brendon, "comes in smelling like wolf all the time, and the scent's all over the cemeteries and other places little slayers like to hang out and play hide and seek. It wasn't hard to put it together."

"Where is he?" Tom repeats, and the atmosphere is suddenly thirty degrees colder. It doesn't seem like they're going to be messing around getting scraps of information much longer.

Ed stares at Tom for a long minute and then seems to break, all the way this time. "I don't know," he says grudgingly, "I called the number she left me," Brendon digs Ed's phone out of the pile of torn clothes on the floor and pockets it. It's not like Ed's going to be in any position to complain or report it as theft. "-and I think she found him leaving the mall. Like I care. I got what I needed out of the deal."

Brendon opens his mouth to ask what that was, but Al's been prowling around the room, picking up item after item, looking more and more disgusted. He uses a pen from the table to pick up an amulet from the shelves, refusing to touch it directly. "I think it's an endurance spell," he says, looking a little confused. "A really, really strong one, Like, keeps you running until it's out of juice and then your heart probably bursts strong."

Ed's smile this time is full of teeth. "Well, yes. She offered me an Eighteenth Century Fascinator charm first, but why would I want to get someone to stand still? All the fun's in when they run..."

Brendon abruptly feels ill as the full meaning of what Ed's saying sinks in, gets a sudden clue to the reasons for the sickened expressions of every person in that room with more-than-human senses.

"You dumped the bodies in the desert," Bob says, and it's not a question.

"It was fun," Ed repeats, and starts to laugh. "A good run, a decent meal," Brendon nearly throws up; it's not like he didn't know werewolves used to- that they could eat people, but- god, "-and a perfect cover, when there's so many other plausible suspects making spectacles of themselves."

"We need to go," Bob says quietly. "I don't think we'll get anything else useful out of him."

Sean nods without taking his eyes off Ed. "We can take care of this from here. There's a procedure for things like this."

He whistles, and Ryan -- who'd been ordered to hang back out of the way with Ryan J. and Max, who'd been the perimeter guard -- trots in with a backpack hanging from his hands. He's got a strap looped over each wrist, and it looks heavy.

"Uh, Bob, can you give us a hand?" Jon asks as Ryan unzips it and a clattering mess of shiny silver chain and cuffs falls out onto the carpet. "We can get it on him, but you'll save us some itching if you and Brendon can do it. He won't move," Jon sounds very sure of that.

Brendon, Ryan and Bob get Ed trussed up securely with the minimum of fuss, and then Sean and Al frogmarch him out to their rental car, after pulling their own clothes back on and throwing a blanket over him to protect any of his neighbours' delicate sensibilities.

"What's-?" Brendon doesn't like to ask.

"He'll go back to Chicago with them," Jon says dully, sitting back and dressing slowly. He's bleeding in a couple places as well, although nothing looks serious. "And there'll be a trial, and then he won't hurt anyone again. Ever."

"Great," Bob says, and he's standing again; pacing actually. "Which just leaves us with one problem. How the fuck do we find Spencer now?"

There's silence, as they all look glum and try not to catch each other's eyes. "At least we know she needs Spencer for something?" Brendon says. It's rather cold comfort.

* * *  
_10.13pm_

The basement door creaks open, and Spencer takes a deep breath to try screaming again, just in case, but the woman -- and fuck, why can't Spencer remember her name, he's sure someone said it -- just says, "No, really, just try it," mockingly and he sags back in the cuffs, glaring.

"What do you think you're doing?" Cassadee asks, filled with what's probably false bravado, but it makes Spencer proud all the same.

"You'll find out later," she promises with a nasty grin, and then throws a bottle of water to each of them. It bounces off Spencer's knee and nearly rolls away.

"I think you've forgotten something," Spencer says drily, rolling his shoulders so the cuffs jingle behind his back. Their kidnapper kicks it the bottle back towards him, and then narrows her eyes, looking between him and Cass, considering.

"Well, I don't have time to baby you," she says, "and I'm certainly not letting you move." She taps her fingers on one of the boxes thoughtfully for a couple of seconds, and then moves closer. To Cassadee.

"I'm going to loosen this," she yanks on the chain that Cassadee's cuffs are attached to, "so you can reach your boyfriend there. Don't try anything funny. You'll regret it." She works quickly, leaving another two feet of slack in the chain, and since Cass' hands are in front of her -- Spencer is pretty jealous, sometimes not being entirely underestimated sucks -- she can pick up the water bottles. Cass gives him a quick look, and Spencer shakes his head almost imperceptibly. They can't do anything right now, not with a witness, but maybe later.

"Drink up," the woman says, digging the toe of her boot into Cass' shin for punctuation, and completely ignoring the twin glares that little trick gains her. Spencer has very rarely wanted to hit someone so badly in his life. "Don't want you two getting dehydrated, here. Need you in one piece," she adds.

She stalks out again, and Cassadee looks at Spencer, the bottle in her hand. "Do you think it's safe to drink?" she asks hesitantly, and Spencer looks at his own, is aware all over again of how his throat is dry and scratchy, and his mouth feels like a herd of dust bunnies crawled in to take up residence with their cousins the lint-balls.

"I... I think so," he says, none too sure himself. "I do believe her when she said she needed us alive and healthy. Let me try it first, and then you, okay?" Besides, if he's weak from dehydration, he'll have even less of a chance to get them out of this. With one more dubious look at the bottle, Cass pulls the lid off, drops it and watches as it promptly rolls well out of reach. "Don't worry," he says, and then closes his eyes as she tips the open bottle carefully into his open mouth. There's only a few mouthfuls at first, and then when it tastes normal, Cassadee helps him drink half the bottle. She watches him carefully, and when nothing happens after about ten more minutes, she drains her own bottle.

"What do you think she meant, 'boyfriend'?" Cass asks, and Spencer had been wondering that himself. It's probably good if she doesn't realise that he's with Bob, or just what their connection to MCR is. It's good because- because- he can't actually seem to get his brain working right to work out just why that's a good thing.

It seems, Spencer reflects muzzily, when the world goes grey around the corners and the floor tries to rush up and meet him, as if maybe there's some kind of drug or potion that takes a little bit longer than that to kick in. Fuck. This is going to hurt later–

* * *  
_11.13pm_

Sean and the rest of the pack take off to get Ed secured before they can take him back with them. They'd stopped back into the house to assure Bob that they'd still be sticking around for the festival still -- apparently they 'knew people' who could babysit sociopathic werewolves for a few hours -- and they'd be in town until they found Spencer as well. And that he should let them know if they needed more help.

Bob had thanked them distractedly, told Jon to meet them all back at his place once they'd dealt with Ed -- they figured safety in numbers for the transfers to and from the car would be important, at least -- and then gone back to rubbing his face tiredly, his beard untidy and the circles under his eyes horribly dark.

Bob goes straight to his books as soon as they get back to his place, jumping from journal to scroll to the dusty tomes at the bottom of boxes he hasn't gotten around to unpacking yet, before slumping onto the couch in near defeat. Planning out loud, almost talking to himself. "We need to see if we can turn up anything with other methods, but I feel like we're missing something. Maybe track down some of the information Ed did share, about the unicorn and the magical artifacts this woman is strewing around the place. There has to be something they all have in common."

Ryan straightens up suddenly, looking illuminated. "The _unicorn_. He said that this Savanti was trying to hunt the unicorn, too. So maybe if we can find the unicorn, then we can find Spencer!"

Bob looks slightly dubious. "I... maybe? I think they can communicate, so maybe we can ask for help-?" Bob nods to himself. "Everything in the Watcher Diaries suggests that they're sentient and capable of speech, just. Uh. There's one other problem with that plan, providing we can find it."

He bites his lip and looks kind of embarrassed. Ryan and Brendon just exchange confused looks; seriously, it's not fucking fair when everyone around them is all "I grew up playing with sand djinns and breaking ancient curses for fun" or being actual living breathing Animorphs.

"All those myths about only virgins being able to touch unicorns? They're apparently true. Or, at least only the pure can approach as close as we'll need to if we're going to be asking it to help us out."

Ryan looks outraged. "We might have a plan that's going to be impossible to carry out because some overgrown horse with delusions of grandeur is _stuck in Victorian England_ when it comes to sexual morality? What the _actual_ fuck."

Bob's grimace is frustrated. "I do the research, I don't make the rules."

It's Brendon's turn to snap his fingers, then. "The rules! Um, Bob, do you know what _exactly_ constitutes virginity in that case? Because, uh. That might help." This is without a doubt one of the most ridiculous conversations Brendon's ever been a part of. If Spencer wasn't missing and likely in horrible danger, it might even be funny as well as awkward.

Bob frowns, chewing on his lip while he thinks. "I... I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think penetrative sex is the definitive marker from the particular epoch they started showing up in." He makes a face. "I'm... pretty definitely disqualified." He brightens up. "Although, Spencer is, too. That might help."

Ryan makes a choked noise.

Jon limps in then, waving off Brendon's concerned noise. "He tried to get away, it didn't work. I'm fine. What's the latest?"

Bob gives him a precis of what they've been able to come up with so far, complete with the depressing possible-plan that they can't actually carry out.

There's a pregnant pause while Jon stares at him, and then, unbelievably, starts to laugh. "Oh god, it's just- wow, how wrong are you guys?"

Bob bristles. Ryan and Brendon aren't much better. Jon speaks very deliberately, as if he's making sure they can't misunderstand him. "The unicorn likes to be in places where there's a lot of activity. Uh. Sexual activity, hormones, all that kind of thing. Lover's lanes, around strip clubs, places people go to park up, anywhere that there's a lot of passion and energy in the air. They're not attracted to virgins, precisely, they're- kind of fascinated by them, but more in the intellectual curiosity sense. If we can find it, there shouldn't be any difficulty for you guys to talk to it." Jon shrugs. "It probably won't be quite so keen on a werewolf, especially after what Ed's been up to around here, but, yeah, you guys? Not a problem."

Despite himself, Brendon can feel the beginning threads of hope starting to knit together, can actually take a deep breath and think they might be able to all get out of this okay. And then he thinks a little bit more carefully about what Jon's implying and can't help a snicker -- it's been a long and stressful day so far, he's totally allowed to be immature.

"What?" Ryan asks, and Brendon just grins and says "None of you will thank me for saying what I'm thinking right now," and ducks the swat Ryan aims at the back of his head.

"Okay," Bob says, "we... kind of have a plan. I hate to say it, but I think we could all do with a couple hours sleep before we go out on a unicorn hunt."

"We should start around the golf course Spence found its hoofprints at," Jon suggests, and then yawns.

"Yeah, exactly," Bob says, stern, "I don't want to lose any of you guys to the water hazard or whatever, so... you guys take the spare room, you should all fit, and I'll set alarms so we can be up and start searching again at three." Brendon hates the idea of stopping, of taking the time for something as pedestrian and selfish as _sleep_, but Bob has a point -- they're all worn out now, and it won't help anyone if they can't get themselves into slightly better shape fast.

* * *  
Saturday  
* * *  
_3.00am_

Having no idea where Spencer is or what kind of state he's in makes getting up from a warm comfortable bed quite a lot easier than it usually is. Bob's eyes feel gritty and sore, and he definitely hasn't had enough sleep really in... way too long, now, but it's going to be enough to get through the day. It's got to be.

He stumbles out of his room and heads to the kitchen to turn the coffeemaker on again, and then raps on the door of the second bedroom with his knuckles. It opens almost under his hand, Jon yawning and walking stiffly, Brendon right on his heels. "Ryan?" Bob asks, and then his vision adjusts enough that he can see Ryan standing by the bed, buttoning up his shirt again. "Awesome," Bob says quietly, and follows the other two to the kitchen for a council of war.

Jon's made a beeline to the coffee and is staring at it, waiting for it to start dripping into the pot, with a single-minded focus that Bob envies. He's moving pretty stiffly himself -- that fight earlier hadn't done him any favours -- and he has a feeling even the strongest coffee in the world isn't going to do much to simplify his mental state right now. The only consolation is that it does seem as if this woman Savanti needs Spencer for something. So he's probably still okay.

"Is there anything, like, magical we can do to find this unicorn?" Brendon asks, scrubbing his hands over his eyes furiously, as if that'll help wake him up better. Heck, it might, who knows.

Bob shrugs, and looks at Jon. For better or worse, Jon's the established expert here, given how wrong most of Bob's material has been.

Jon scrunches up his face, thinking hard, but has to shake his head, fighting off another yawn. "Not that I know of," he says, "or the guys would've used it. Witches we do get on with."

"So we have to do this the hard way," Ryan says, resigned.

"How are we even going to approach it when we find it?" Brendon asks, looking from Jon to Bob, clearly hoping one of them will have an answer. They exchange a look.

"I... fuck, I don't know, Bren, sorry," Bob says, feeling spectacularly useless and totally unequipped for this.

"I'm going to call the other guys back in," Jon says, "if we all split up we can cover a lot more area, and if we're not trying to approach it, we can maybe get a rough idea of its location and then call you guys in."

"Sounds like a plan," Bob says. It's about the best they'll be able to do, anyway.

* * *  
_5.47am_

Jon's reinforcements have split to every part of town that Bob, Ryan and Brendon could identify on the map as a potential unicorn-hunting ground, and they're all checking in half-hourly, marking off where they've been, if there's any trace of the unicorn, and if so, how old it is.

"I am uncomfortably reminded," Ryan says, kicking through some vegetation behind Jon, "of how almost anywhere people think is a good place to neck is also a great place to dispose of a body." He and Brendon had opted to follow Jon and leave Bob running things from his place, figuring that way they'd maybe be able to split the distance the non-wolfy people would have to cover if they were closer to wherever they wound up finding the unicorn.

Brendon just stares at him. "You're thinking positive," he mutters, and Ryan wants to say that that's not what he meant, but Jon's loping back towards the car park again now, and he needs all his energy to climb over what is the fifth or sixth fence of the morning, and definitely the fourth hill.

Ryan's phone rings, then, the ringtone loud in the pre-dawn darkness, and he has to scramble to get it out of his pocket without dropping it or tripping over anything.

"Other Ryan just checked in," Bob says, "he thinks he's close."

"Where-?" Ryan pants, stopping for a second to catch his breath, and realizing with an uncomfortable mental twist that he's actually kind of hungry.

"He said he's at Sunset Park, out by-"

"McCarran, I know," Ryan says, impatient. "Did he say where in the park? It's pretty big."

"By the water?" Bob sounds unsure. That's pretty much downtown, and they don't actually get out there too often; most of the serious shit seems to go down in the suburbs, or at least places where there's not a million people wandering around with cocktails and video cameras at all hours of the day. Probably even the vampires don't want to end up on 60 Minutes. Or, worse, America's Funniest Home Videos.

"Yeah, I know it," Ryan says, and, "We're on it. Call you when we've checked it out."

"You better," Bob says, and then Ryan flips his phone shut, jogs over to Brendon, standing by the car, and updates him and Jon while they drive.

Jon's wrapped up in a rug -- he's been staying mostly wolfy since they've been looking, and apparently it's easier to trot on three legs than it is to limp on two, but Brendon had insisted he wear a seatbelt when they were in the van, and that meant having arms and legs. Brendon glances in the rear vision mirror and catches enough of a look of Jon that he reaches over to pump the heat up a little more without being prompted.

"Thanks," Jon says quietly, and Ryan can hear him shifting, trying to wrap himself tighter. If they have to drive anywhere else after this, Ryan's sitting in the backseat, too; Jon's sounding a little croaky and totally worn down, as if he's getting sick, and Ryan doesn't bleed heat like Brendon does, admittedly, but he figures even his scrawny frame has to help at this point.

* * *  
_6.15am_

The sun is just starting to come up with Brendon, Jon and Ryan park near the tennis courts and head into the park proper. Brendon's gotten Ryan J's number from Bob and has been narrowing down a place to meet. Ryan just wonders where he's been keeping his phone when he's in wolf form, and then, on further reflection, wishes he hadn't. He feels a little sheepish when Ryan J lopes up from behind a stand of fir trees with a bag in his teeth.

He jumps into the van with Jon, and then sticks a tousled head out around the door a couple of seconds later. "I'm pretty sure it's hanging out down near the lake," he says, "the end where there's some mini boats or something? There's a little beach and everything."

"Right," Brendon says, and starts walking, fast.

"Uh, what're you going to be doing?" Ryan asks, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He wants to go now to find the unicorn, but some more backup would be nice. It's possible Jon's stories have sort of freaked him out a bit, even taking into consideration that they're now totally sure that the unicorn hasn't actually hurt anyone and it was all Ed.

"I'm gonna yell at Jon for a second for not looking after himself properly," Ryan J says cheerfully, "and then we'll circle around so we're downwind and work our way back to you guys."

"Good," Ryan says, and he means that for both plans.

He and Brendon are probably not the stealthiest guys ever as they head towards the lake, aiming for the shed that Ryan remembers the remote control boats being stored in. He's kind of nervous, they're both tired and stumbling a little, and they're each craning their necks in opposite directions, looking for a flash of white in between the trees, cursing at the wind ruffling the leaves and making it harder to hear anything in all the little noises made by nature around them.

Ryan nearly trips over a rock by the path, and grabs for Brendon's hand automatically as he flails about, trying to stop himself falling. It's that which probably saves them, because Brendon squeezes his hand comfortingly once Ryan has his balance back, and doesn't let go. And that's when Ryan stops dead, and realises the patch of dark-coloured shadow fifteen feet away isn't moving because it's not a shadow after all.

Brendon's voice rings in his head again, "You saw a sparkly white pony?" and then Jon's immediate "No," and Ryan can't believe none of them thought to ask about that other little assumption they'd been making, too.

"Bren," he hisses, and jerks his chin to the right. Brendon's eyes widen, and he stops walking, too.

"Um, hi?" Ryan says, which, thank god unicorns have been around for thousands of years or whatever, because if that was going to be First Contact, then it was not even remotely the smoothest example of human interaction ever.

"Look, we're... sorry to bother you, but we would like to ask for your help?" Brendon sounds uncertain, and Ryan squeezes his hand again. He's not sure what else he can do, at this point.

There's a pregnant pause, and then the shadow ripples towards them, and even from, like, five feet away it's still really hard to see, mottled coat blending in amazingly in the dim morning light and underbrush.

"What on earth would two cute little human boys want my help for?" it says, in perfectly understandable, unaccented English, and Ryan blinks hard, trying to get a better look. It's- roughly horse-shaped, yeah, but it's also the size of a small pony -- he hates to be a cliché, but he was totally expecting something bigger -- and it does certainly have a horn spiralling out of the middle of its forehead. The horn is reflecting what little light there is, and he totally gets why people have described it as glowing, yeah.

"Um, it's a long story," Brendon starts, and then shoots Ryan a helpless look. As if Ryan has any better ideas.

"And we'd appreciate it, like, a lot, if you don't mind at least hearing us out?" Ryan tries. Mostly because he wasn't really sure they'd even be able to find the unicorn, and now that they have, he really, really doesn't want to have to go chasing it. If nothing else, he doesn't think this plan has a hope in hell of working without its willing cooperation.

"Shoot," the unicorn says, and stamps a hoof as if to say 'get on with it'. It's actually more unnerving to hear that voice coming out of something that looks like it should be giving rides at a fair than almost anything else Ryan's seen since Spencer became the slayer; there's something about a mythological creature talking like an actor in a sitcom that makes him feel very unbalanced.

"Well, firstly, I know there's been a werewolf attacking people lately, and trying to. Uh. Frame you for it." Ryan says. "We're really sorry about that and we wanted to say that we've caught him, so you don't need to worry about that any more."

The unicorn snorts as if worrying was the last thing on its mind, but doesn't say anything.

"The thing is- he was working with someone else, someone who's been stealing magical items and casting spells, and she's kidnapped our friend -- he's the slayer -- and we think she wants to use him to get at you, somehow. The, um. The other werewolf said something about how she had some uses for unicorn hair. And. Other things." Ryan has a feeling you shouldn't prevaricate in front of a unicorn, but it seems over the top to start telling someone how you need them to help you find someone else who wants to cut them into tiny pieces and make, like, magical soup or whatever out of them.

"Ah. One of those," the unicorn says, sounding disgusted. "Run the part where you need my help by me again, huh?"

Brendon steps forward, his hand slipping out of Ryan's, and opens his mouth to explain. And then stops dead, looking confused. "Where'd you-?" he asks, and Ryan stares, horrified, because the unicorn is just- it's _gone_.

"Still here," comes the voice out of a shadowy patch of what he'd have sworn was once more thin air. It sounds resigned, and a little amused. Ryan is this close to telling the supernatural to kiss his ass, frankly. "Go back to your boyfriend there if you want to see," it suggests, and Brendon does. The second Brendon's back in his personal space -- not even touching, just closer -- the unicorn fuzzes back into view.

"Holy shit," Ryan breathes, because that's some camouflage. That sure explains more than it doesn't.

"Yeah, comes in handy," the unicorn says, "no idea how it works down on the itty-bitty metaphysical doo-dah level, but unless you're with someone you have fuzzy feelings about? I'm just a blurry spot you don't even see out of the corner of your eye. Good, good, good vibrations for the photoelectric excitation, man," and Ryan and Brendon both chorus "Huh?" because, seriously, did the unicorn just quote the fucking Beach Boys at them? _More things on heaven and earth_ indeed, Ryan thinks, and also, Jesus fucking _Christ_.

"Anyway," Ryan says, "our friend has been kidnapped by this woman. And we think, well, if she's trying to lure you– actually, do you have a name? I feel kind of stupid calling you 'you' or 'the unicorn'."

The unicorn gives him a measuring look, and flicks its tail. "Rather not. Names are dangerous, I'm not down with sharing mine indiscriminately, no offence intended."

"Fine," Ryan says, because he doesn't actually care all that much, just so long as it helps, and since it hasn't run off anywhere yet, he's taking that as a good sign. "If she's trying to lure you in for whatever purposes of her own, we thought that maybe you could let us know and we could ambush _her_."

"We think it's going to be out near Lake Mead, where the music festival is," Brendon adds helpfully, and the unicorn says, "Huh, I was actually planning to wander out that way. Lots of kids getting all worked up, sounds like a good time to me."

"So... would you mind helping?" Ryan asks, biting the inside of his cheek. He doesn't want to beg, but it's _Spencer_ and he totally will if he has to.

"Can't see why not," the unicorn says, and then, a little more bitingly, "so long as you tell me what the catch is. Like, why there's a dude over in the bushes down there," it nods its head in the direction of the lake, "who makes all the hairs on my neck stand on end, and believe me, that's a lotta hair."

"Oh. Uh." Brendon says. "It's not just us who're looking for Spencer -- that's the slayer. Our other friends are too. Um. Some of them are werewolves? But they're good werewolves! And, like, they're not going to give you any trouble, I swear."

The unicorn snorts again, appears to think it over, and then says, "Ah, what the hell. Sure. Can't hurt, and you did warn me, anyway. So, how're you wanting to run this?"

"I'll call Bob," Brendon says, and, "I think we should set up a base somewhere a bit closer to the festival," Jon adds, having obviously taken the unicorn's agreement as an invitation to come a bit closer.

"How fast can you move around town?" he asks, after a moment's thought. He's still limping slightly, but he's dressed again, looking a lot warmer, and he tucks himself in between Ryan and Brendon without even a moment's pause.

"Faster than you'd expect," the unicorn says.

"Huh," Jon says, as the unicorn comes into focus, but he doesn't say anything else.

* * *  
_9:26am_

Their kidnapper comes back into the room not long after Spencer and Cassadee wake up, stiff and bruised from falling unconscious -- again -- where they've been sitting for however many more hours. Spencer really wishes he knew her name, for convenience's sake if nothing else – although there are some nifty tricks that can be done with someone's real name, too, which Spencer wouldn't mind trying at this point. Not getting enough sleep makes him cranky, and having to spend god knows how many hours _chained to a fucking wall_ makes him crankier. Like, infinity squared crankier. Seriously ready and motivated to kick some super-villain ass, at least as soon as he can get his hands free. He's strong, but those bolts are just not giving an inch, and he doesn't want to tear his wrists up by trying too hard now.

Eventually she's going to have to let them loose for some reason or another -- and thinking about _that_ doesn't help his bladder any; there is some shit they definitely left out of the movies, and that's that being kidnapped is actually pretty boring so far and involves a lot of not thinking about bathrooms if at all possible. Escaping. Escaping is a much better thing to focus on. If nothing else, he's fucked if he's going to let anything happen to Cassadee; protecting the innocent is kind of his raison d'etre and all. And he might be chained up with some kind of super-strong magic stuff, but she's made the mistake of leaving his legs free, if nothing else, and the chain's plenty long enough to work with if she just comes close enough to him. Spencer still has options. They're not great options, but they're options.

"What's going on?" Spencer asks, pulling at his cuffs, even though he knows it's futile. "Why are we still here, what exactly are you doing?" He gives Cassadee an imploring look, but she shrugs awkwardly. They're being pretty thoroughly ignored, as the kidnapper goes over to the haphazard pile of magic shit (and yeah, Spencer knows exactly what's been going on with the tour, no way is this one-woman magical chop-shop getting away with it now) on the opposite wall and begins rummaging.

"What's she doing?" Cassadee hisses to Spencer.

They get an off-hand "Shut the fuck up," and it doesn't sound really menacing or anything, but Spencer recognizes some of the artifacts from Bob's enforced slayer study hours, and some of them are seriously fucking lethal. He's pretty positive they've been kidnapped for a reason, but he's probably pushed his luck enough, so he just gives Cass a look he hopes is apologetic. It might not come across that way, his dominant emotion at the moment is "fucking pissed off."

"Hah," he hears from across the room, and when he looks back up at the kidnapper, she's heading back for the door with a distressingly self-satisfied grin and a necklace she's found in the pile, a huge tarnished silver monstrosity with a loopy kind of knot hanging from it. Spencer swallows with dread, a cliché it turns out is actually real.

"This is not good," he mutters after she's left.

Cass, of course, picks up on it. "What? What was that, what do you know?"

Spencer sighs. He's really been hoping to avoid this conversation, especially since the woman doesn't seem to know he's the slayer and she might have some kind of surveillance on them. No way around it, though; if he's right about what's to come, it'll be pretty apparent, pretty quickly. "Look," he starts, taking a deep breath. "I know this is going to sound nuts, but... magic is real."

Cassadee just stares at him. "Are you _high_?" she demands. "No, I'm serious. Have you gone crazy, do you have Stockholm Syndrome or whatever? Is it too much D&amp;D?"

"You can't ask how I know," Spencer tells her, kind of frantically, "but I swear, it is, and I think that thing she just grabbed is going to make us do what she tells us to, so look, don't fight it, okay? I need to figure out what she wants us for, and I swear I know what I'm doing, so unless she tells you to do something to, like, hurt yourself, just do it, okay?" It's about the longest speech he's ever made to Cassadee, normally she'd interrupt him about ten words in. She's too busy gaping right now.

"Just do it," he hisses as the door opens back up.

* * *  
_9.28am_

Apparently the unicorn's mojo-visibility trick works for people who used to be dating as well as people who still are, because when Brian turns up at the park (it's more an overgrown patch of scrub behind a truck-stop, but it'll do) where Brendon, Jon and Ryan assure Bob the unicorn is going to meet them, the disembodied voice that had been theoretically helping them plan ways to find Spencer and to deal with this Savanti (and in practice, kind of flirting with Bob, and after having met poltergeists, there was no way he was encouraging _that_, even if it was going to help them find Spence) suddenly resolves itself into a blotchy dark pony-sized, well. Okay, it's a unicorn. Bob probably shouldn't have been expecting much else. It makes the flirting kind of more disturbing, though.

The unicorn sidles closer, and gives Brian the most considering look an equine face can manage.

"Aren't you something?" it says, and then, "Ooh, and don't the two of you have quite the history. Feeling better now you can see me, dear?" it asks, this last addressed to Bob, who just growls -- it might be true, but that doesn't mean he has to like it, or to take that kind of comment from a four-footed walking purity test; it's bad enough that he has to get comments on his love life from everyone else he knows.

"Let's just get on with this," Bob says, and goes back to, with Brian's help, plotting ways to find Spencer wherever she's stashed him. They're assuming it'll be around the venue, somewhere. It's a huge place and there are a lot of places to look, and with the other guys from Chicago all back at their own hotel to snatch a couple hours sleep before their set, they're down to just Jon right now in terms of supernatural senses. Unless Mikey can come up with something in the mean time.

"What're we going to do when we catch her anyway?" Ryan asks, looking uncomfortable.

"Depends," Bob says. He's not too comfortable with this part of the plan either, but they don't know what kind of firepower -- literal or metaphysical -- Savanti will have to throw around, and he's not going to let anyone else get hurt if he can help it. If that means taking her down, then, well. So be it.

"I can take care of any magical ability," the unicorn puts in, to Bob's surprise. It sounds a lot more serious than it has all morning so far, he gets the feeling that part of this is all just a delightful, diversionary game for it so far. "I expect you can deal with mundane threats?"

"We've got some contingency plans for that, yeah," Bob says, frowning. He had... not expected that, at all. And the unicorn seems to read that in his tone, too, because it sighs audibly and walks over, leaning against him for a second. It's surprisingly warm -- he has a feeling it'd show up nicely on infra-red even if it's not in the normal visible spectrum, and he vows not to share that little comment with anyone -- and its coat feels soft and sleek against his fingers. He has to fight the urge to pat it -- that's probably not a good move with a powerful and largely unknown supernatural creature, however much it looks like a regular pet horse.

"I prefer to avoid killing other creatures," the unicorn says softly, "wherever possible. I'm sure you can do the math as to why your werewolf friends and I don't generally get on. And if I can do something to help you stop this woman without killing her, then it's a simple choice."

"Thanks," Bob says, and dares a light touch to the creature's shoulder.

* * *  
_9.50am_

"You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

Their kidnapper doesn't sound like she's terribly concerned by whatever the response will be. Spencer looks at the drum case open in front of him and gives her a look of absolute loathing. He's not, and he doesn't _want_ to be, but if she's serious about putting him in that– well. Spencer has never wanted to be quite that close to his instrument before, and he really wasn't planning to change now.

"I'm really going to enjoy kicking your ass later," he says to her, gritting his teeth.

"Get in," she says, "it's not for long, I'm not going to let you go out of your little mind before I can use you."

"I'm so sorry, Cass," Spencer says, looking over his shoulder at Cassadee, who's standing in front of a road case that's just a little bigger than she is, looking seriously pissed.

"Despite the evidence to the contrary," she says, "I do get that this isn't actually your fault. I've wound up worse places playing hide and go seek, right?" She sounds a little unsure at the end, but tucks herself gamely into the case all the same.

"Don't even think about screaming," their kidnapper warns her, "no one will hear you. Or if they do, they won't care for long. I can make sure of that." She fingers a little clay charm hanging off her wrist and smiles sunnily.

"Seriously," Spencer says, as the woman -- J-something, he's almost certain, it's right on the tip of his fucking tongue now -- bends over to snap the locks closed on Cassadee. "There aren't even words in the English language for how much I'm going to make you pay for this." It's not entirely bravado; so long as he can get them out of this basement and pretend to be playing along, they'll probably get an opportunity to make a break for it. And if she's taking them out to the festival -- which seems most likely, given the gear cases to smuggle them along with, and the fact that she's probably going to be wanting to keep her job for a little bit longer and that'll require actually _turning up to work_ \-- then surely Spencer will be able to do something there. All he has to do now is retain the power of free will.

And maybe watch his fucking mouth a little better, because that last comment was maybe a step too far. He's willing enough to get into the drum case -- he's wriggled inside his own kick drum case once before on a dare, and he knows he fits -- and that it'll be something uncomfortable and unpleasant but a step to getting them _out_ of there. But it seems like she wants him a little more cowed than that, because she's advancing towards him with that necklace in her hands, and Spencer abruptly has a really bad feeling about this.

"I'm in, I'm in," he says, trying to step forward and forgetting about the cuffs still holding him tight to the wall, pulling him up short with a jangle of chain. "Oh, shit," he says fervently, and then tries to echo that with a second, stronger curse a second later, but she's dropped the heavy silver links around his neck, and Spencer's muscles aren't under his control any more.

She gives him a nasty smile. "Stand still," she says, and he feels his muscles lock up even more than they had been already.

"Ooh, just the autonomic functions, huh?" she says speculatively, and shoves a finger into his stomach where she'd kicked him last night. It hurts, and Spencer wants to flinch away, but he can't move or cry out or even try to tighten his stomach muscles so it'll hurt less. "I've been wanting to try this thing out," she goes on, and then steps behind him, unlocking the chains with a word -- so, huh, magical lock. Spencer can take "bitching himself out for not learning to pick locks yet" off the list of reasons he's a complete failure as a slayer. Not watching his own back better is still number one on that little list.

Spencer stands stock still, hands still behind his back, and he wants so badly to rub his wrists, shift his shoulders, which feel like they've been cemented in place at an angle that he knows is not good for them. "You will only obey my orders," the kidnapper says clearly, and there's a muffled curse from the case that Cassadee is locked in; looks like she'd worked out that little loophole herself, too. "Get in the case," she says, and as Spencer obediently bends to start folding himself inside the small space, she laughs and adds, "Slayer? Knock your head on the top a couple of times, while you're at it."

It's so fucking petty; Spencer manages to keep the literal meaning of 'couple' in the forefront of his mind as he does what he's been told, but it still hurts, and he has to blink to clear the spots of black out of his vision. He knows he's not exactly functioning at his best now, and that can't have helped.

"Slayer, stop hitting yourself," she taunts, and, seriously, Spencer has never wished more fervently to be able to shoot actual literal laser beams out of his eyes. She bends over to snap the locks closed on the case he's in then, and it's dark and quiet for a little while; just the noise of things being shifted, and then a grunt of effort and some more barely audible words that sound like spellcasting, he can feel himself being moved. The case tilts on the stairs -- she must have something rigged up to get heavy things in and out -- and then levels out. Spencer counts slowly in his head, _one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three..._ and is at about three hundred rivers in the south when he hears engine noise. It's not difficult to identify it as a van, and the thunk as his case gets shoved to the back is echoed by another not long afterwards; one that's punctuated by a soft curse. He's pretty sure it's Cass -- well, really, who else is it going to be? -- and wishes like crazy he could say something to reassure her.

The drive out to what Spencer assumes is going to be the venue doesn't take as long as he expects. He spends most of the time worried about Cassadee, worried about himself, not thinking about what his parents must be assuming right now and having elaborate fantasies about just how good it's going to feel to take their kidnapper down. His attention snaps back to his surroundings as they come to a halt. Either they started out nearby or she has some kind of mystical skill that involves avoiding traffic, as well. Either way, he's incredibly relieved when it's what feels like less than an hour before there are other voices outside and the engine noise cuts out.

"I need these all backstage," he hears, and then, "Don't open anything; the guys don't need most of this gear today, I just need to go through it and then return the rental van. Also? You're not going to hear _anything_ weird. Now go."

There's more noise, a "Fucking hell, what's in here?" from one of the guys moving things as his case slides out of the van and then gets dropped -- Spencer hits his head on the side again wholly unintentionally this time, and fuck, apparently basic physics aren't excluded from whatever charm is on the necklace. Other people can move him, he just can't move himself. Also, _ow_.

His case stays sideways, and fuck, 'uncomfortable' was apparently the understatement of the decade, because then it's bumping along over what can't be terribly even ground, unwilling passenger on a dolly cart until it gets tipped off onto the ground. He hears Cassadee make an involuntary noise as her case is stacked next to his, but the guys doing the work clearly don't, or whatever suggestion they've been given means they don't register it, at least. Spencer tries to look on the bright side: he's not face-down any more, if nothing else.

It's still a huge relief when he hears the locks being unsnapped, and weak sunlight floods his eyes, faintly blinding at first. "Get out and sit on the ground over there," she orders him, pointing to a pillar in the middle of the room. Spencer takes advantage of what leeway he has with that order to walk as slowly as he can -- which isn't exactly by design, he's all kinds of stiff after being stuck in one position for so long -- and watches as she bends over to open Cassadee's case.

She's just starting to straighten up when Cassadee launches herself out of the case, fists swinging and kicking out, determined. Spencer has to admire the hell out of the effort; it almost works, and she gets one good shot in which looks like it's going to leave a nasty black eye. But she's been stuck in that case even longer than Spencer has, and adrenaline can only compensate for so much -- Cass stumbles trying to knock her down, and she regains the advantage, hooking an ankle around Cassadee's and sending her flying onto her knees, barely catching herself before her head hits, grazing both palms in the effort. She tries to get up again, but gets a solid kick to the shin for the effort, and then there's a snikt of metal on metal, and when Cassadee looks up, it's to see a thin, lethal looking sword held in their kidnapper's hands, clear and present threat.

Cassadee sighs, and sits back on her haunches, looking seriously pissed. Spencer has great taste in friends, he has to admit.

"Go over there," she -- Juliet, it's just come back to Spencer now, her coming into the room backstage on Thursday, Frank thanking her, maybe all the head trauma was good for _something_ \-- points the sword tip to Spencer, "and if you try something like that again, I'll start getting creative with your boy there. I need him alive. In one piece is optional."

Spencer is gratified to realise he can actually roll his eyes. Or maybe, with that lovely B-movie dialogue, that counts as an autonomic response as well.

* * *  
_11.55am_

"I need to get back," Brian announces, turning back from where he'd been talking with Bob and the unicorn. "You guys should be able to get in about a half hour from now; your passes'll get you backstage, too, so find me if you need to or just poke around anywhere that looks plausible. Anyone gives you any trouble, you've got my number."

"Great," Bob says, and goes back to pacing. Jon's not going to be surprised to see a path worn into the asphalt when they leave, the way Bob's been doing that. He'd be more worried about how little a plan they actually _have_ if he had more energy. The nap helped, yeah, but he's basically feeling like death warmed over by this point, and the sooner they find Spencer, the better.

"Any ideas on why Savanti needs Spencer in particular?" Brendon asks again. They've been going over this at regular intervals ever since they found out who had him, and none of them have had any brilliant flashes of insight yet, but they keep trying. It's as if they hope that if they ask at the right moment, someone's going to figure it out.

"What did you say?" Brian asks, coming to a dead halt, hand on his car door.

Jon straightens up. Maybe Brian has an idea after all.

"I wondered why she needs Spencer specifically," Brendon says, and Brian shakes his head.

"No, did you- you said Savanti." He's bouncing on his toes now, and he clearly knows _something_. Jon hopes he'll share soon; the last coffee he had is wearing off and as shameful as it is, all he wants to do now is to curl up in Ryan's lap and sleep for a while.

"Yeah," Brendon says, looking puzzled. "That's the name the werewolf gave us. We figured, you know, evil mastermind, only has one name, yadda yadda."

Bob is staring at Brian, too, hope dawning in his eyes. "You're shitting me. She used her _real name_?"

Brian grins back fiercely, features alight with unholy amusement. "Amateurs," he says scornfully, in perfect unison with Bob. "That's our sound tech," Brian goes on. "Juliet Savanti."

Bob's on his feet, and, huh, Jon is, too. He's clearly more out of it than he'd realised. "So you know where she is," Bob says, and Jon's pretty sure that if they had subtitles right now, Bob's interior monologue would be all "let's go let's go let's GO." He's fidgeting worse than Brendon usually does, desperate to get moving.

"I don't know where she is right now," Brian corrects, "but I know where she's _going_ to be. Let's get moving."

* * *  
_12.01pm_

"And now, I need this for a little longer," Juliet says, ducking in to lift the necklace over Spencer's head. He slumps back against Cassadee for a second as the awful compulsion to sit up straight and not shift at all finally leaves, but as much as he'd love to fight back now, he still can't really move. She'd had him hold Cassadee's wrists still while she tied them up again -- they're trussed up even more securely than they had been in the basement; wrists tied together (although in front of them this time, at least, Spencer is not overlooking that small mercy), and Spencer's got more rope and that chain around his waist attaching him to the pillar at his back. Cassadee's ankles are tied as well, but she's got a bit more freedom than he does. As soon as Juliet leaves them, Spencer has plans for that.

"Ow," he says with feeling, letting his head fall back against the pillar, before looking around to take stock.

"Are you okay?" Cass asks, looking worried. She's probably bruised and sore herself, but she's not complaining about it at all, just shifting as much as she can within the bonds, trying to keep herself functional.

"I'll be fine," Spencer says, and pretends like he's not starting to get a pounding headache. "That was a good try before," he says, because she deserves to hear that. "Next time don't hit someone in the face, though. You'll hurt yourself more than them."

"Duh," Cassadee says, "I was just trying to distract her so that- you know what, whatever, it wasn't like I could kick her in the balls; that's sort of more the type of self-defence I expect to be employing, I improvised."

"Good improvising," Spencer says, trying to turn his wrists to see if he can pick at the knots at all.

"It would've been if it'd worked," Cass mutters, and then looks down at their wrists. "What do you need me to do?"

"See if you can get a grip on that- yeah, that knot," Spencer says.

Cassadee does her best, but even with them working together, it's slow going. Spencer is pretty sure that he'll see Juliet coming back in before she can see what they're doing, though -- they're in a pavilion area; it looks semi-permanent with one big window along the wall and a door on the opposite side, canvas walls rolled down and tied to posts holding the roof on -- and he's facing the door. They can hear a low buzz of noise outside -- the festival, Spencer figures -- but if they're anywhere, it's backstage, and he doesn't think she'd have left them alone if there was any chance yelling would get attention. One day Spencer's going to learn that soundproofing charm himself. And the counter-spell.

There's a bunch of boxes all around them -- some of it looks like gear, the rest is pretty obviously the pile of magical stuff that had been in the basement with them. Most of it's boxed up still, but two of the boxes are open. Spencer thinks that dagger Juliet had earlier was from one of them.

"So," Cass says conversationally, trying to grasp a loop of cord between her index finger and Spencer's thumb to pull on it, "what's a slayer?"

Spencer freezes up.

"I have no idea what you're-" he starts.

"Other than a crappy-ass metal band," Cassadee says, looking steadily at him, "because I might've been in a fucking box, but I heard her call you that. More than once. What's the deal, Spence? Level with me. We're freaking kidnapped and tied up here, it's not like I'm gonna do anything with this information."

Spencer sighs. "I'm a slayer. The slayer. I..." he pauses, bites his lip. He never feels less stupid saying this. "I slay vampires. It's, like, a fated destiny kind of thing."

"Normally I'd be asking you what you were smoking, and when you last saw a shrink, but," Cassadee's shrug encompasses the room around them, the pile of magical artifacts and the fact she'd just seen and heard Spencer bespelled into immobility.

"...yeah," Spencer sighs.

"So this is all in a day's work for you?" Cass asks, sounding slightly hopeful. "Because if so, I gotta say, I'd prefer not to be a hostage next time, too. I always pictured myself more the ass-kicking type than the one running screaming in a filmy nightgown. Do vampires really go for that?"

It's a bit of a screeching subject change, but if he tries, Spencer thinks he can maybe see her logic trail there. Either way, he answers honestly. "Mostly they go for 'breathing'. They're not exactly discriminating. Anne Rice and all that are definitely way off base."

"Huh," Cassadee says, and goes back to working on the knot on top of her right wrist.

* * *  
_2.40pm_

"Dude," says the unicorn appreciatively, and if Brendon drifts back a step to bump his hip against Jon's, he can see it, but otherwise it's just a fuzzy afterimage that makes him want to blink and rub his eyes. They'd arranged to meet up with it once they got backstage, and so far, had no trouble whatsoever getting in to Trickfest proper and then out to the backstage area, which actually faced onto even more scenic woods, with a glimmer of the lake off in the distance.

Bob had asked during their last minute planning back at the truck-stop if it could get in, and it'd just given an extremely equine snort before replying, "Can do, cupcake." Bob had glared, although mostly at Brendon and Jon who'd made the mistake of giggling out loud.

"I'll find you," the unicorn had assured them, although it seemed to mostly be eyeing Bob, still. "I've got a good read on you all, no worries." And that had proven to be the case, too; Brendon and Ryan had been looking around the mass of people buzzing purposefully around backstage, carrying instruments and gear, shifting electronics, and wondering out loud where to start looking. Jon and Bob had been speaking rapidly to Tom just beside one of the stages; they'd caught them right before they were due to go on, and were busily updating him on the latest when the unicorn had basically spoken right beside Brendon's ear, making him jump.

 

"Should we split up?" Ryan asks uncertainly, once they've got the four of them all together, again, and Brendon had mimed that the unicorn was present and accounted for, not that he really needed to when it was clearly audible, even if it wasn't always visible.

"That's really creepy," Bob says, eyeing the patch of air where he thinks the unicorn is with a glower.

"Not my fault," it says, "I was born this way," and seriously, they had to cop the unicorn with a snarkiness problem, didn't they? Brendon thinks he should stop being surprised by this kind of thing any time now. "Also, I don't think we should split up."

"We might be able to cover more ground," Bob starts, looking at Jon, and Brendon bristles. He wants to find Spencer as badly as anyone -- okay, maybe not quite as badly as Bob, or at least for different reasons -- but Jon is in no shape to be changing right now, and he doesn't think a semi-conscious and feverish werewolf will do anyone any favours. Maybe when they _find_ Spencer, if they need some more supernatural backup, but not right now.

"And how do I let you know when I sense something useful?" the unicorn asks reasonably. "I can't exactly call you."

"Ah." Bob says, and toes the ground uncomfortably. "We have to do something, though," he bursts out, "because what if you don't sense anything- and I'm probably going to go nuts if we stand around much longer, to be honest."

"Let's walk around, figure out the lay of the land?" Jon suggests, and Brendon squeezes his hand, can see Ryan lean his weight into Jon for a moment as well.

"Good idea," Brendon says loyally, and they set off. Jon's still limping, and Brendon's pretty sure that if they ever have to write up this particular adventure for Bob's Watcher Diaries, he's going to be in the cast as "crutch for lame werewolf".

They've been taking pains to stay out of the way of the crew working backstage -- more out of a desire to avoid trouble and attention than anything else -- and stepping around the various trailers and tents set up for bands. Jon is doing what he can in human form to keep his attention on any trace of Spencer that might be lingering, but Bob doesn't want them to start poking around into places where people are just hanging out until they can't possibly avoid it. They're actually looping pretty close to the back of the stage itself again when the unicorn starts - twitching is the only word Brendon has for it. It's dancing on its hooves a little, almost squirming, and it snorts and looks towards the stage, leaning unmistakably in that direction, its coat shivering a little, a wave of motion from withers to hocks.

"What is it?" Brendon hisses, and Bob asks, none too quietly, "What?"

Bob is maybe a little cranky at having to depend on Brendon, Jon and Ryan to watch the unicorn.

"Uh, it's nothing, man," the unicorn says, but it looks longingly towards the stage all the same, "I'm pretty sure it's not your friend."

"Pretty sure?" Bob asks, turning to walk back towards them, his hands out as if he's trying to find the unicorn that way.

"There's something going on near the stage," Ryan says, frowning.

"And I'm pretty sure it's nothing to do with you," the unicorn repeats, but it's actually sounding disappointed.

"Why?" Bob asks again, impatient.

"Because I don't think your slayer would be having sex under the stage right now," the unicorn says matter-of-factly.

"Someone's hooking up under the stage?" Brendon hisses, half-scandalized, half-envious. "During the _show_?"

"Well, yeah," the unicorn says, lingering over the consonants. "It's a turn-on, right, all those people, maybe getting caught..."

"_You're_ totally getting off on that," Jon accuses, staring at the unicorn with wide eyes.

It snorts again and gives a 'what're-you-gonna-do' type of shrug, flicking its tail restlessly. "I'm meant to," it says. "Shit, there are so many people here who're thinking about getting some, or actually doing it, and most of the ones who aren't are focused on the stage; it's a beautiful cocktail of lust and abandon, so excuse the fuck out of me for picking up a contact high."

Brendon has a sudden and uncomfortable regression back to the point of worrying if they'd made the right choice getting the unicorn involved. Maybe this is how Bob has been feeling all along. Because now they're here, it seems like it's maybe a little... flaky.

"Hey, now," the unicorn says then, "have a little faith, dudes. We'll find them." It starts to move off in the opposite direction, giving up on whatever's going on near the stage, and with a group sigh, they follow.

* * *  
_3.15pm_

Spencer and Cassadee are nowhere near as close as he'd like to being untied and out of there when Juliet comes back in, whistling cheerfully.

"Hope you haven't worn yourselves out doing anything silly like screaming," she says, picking up a bag, and starting to walk a circle -- with them as the focal point -- around them, pouring something white out of the bag as she does. Spencer's figuring salt. If it's a ritual circle, then that's going to be a safe assumption. And it also sort of suggests that whatever's going to go down is going to happen soon. Spencer hates working to a time frame. Which means keeping her distracted is suddenly a lot more important. He'd shared everything he could think of -- the thefts, the tie in to My Chem's tour, how he'd gotten involved in the first place (well. Sort of. He wasn't exactly going to go into the whole Bob thing, or, worse, the Bob-and-Brian thing, but the highlights, sure), and what little he'd worked out so far, like who their kidnapper actually _is_, with Cassadee while they were working on the knots; she's in the loop as much as he is now, and if they don't exactly have a definite plan to escape, it's sure not for want of talking.

"What are you doing?" he asks again, playing more ignorant than he is. "Come on, you might as well spill, it's not like we're going anywhere."

"That's right, you're not," she says with some satisfaction, closing off the salt circle, and starting to do something arcane with a couple of candles and some chalk. "You're not going anywhere at all. And since you don't have a hope of getting out of here now," Spencer wonders what hope they'd had tied up with chains in a basement, but figures that might not be the most politic of questions. Also, he doesn't want her getting reminded to come take a closer look at their bonds now. "I may as well tell you," she says, and Spencer gets the impression she wants to show off. Grandstanding. Great, that was just what his day needed.

"Why do you need _both_ of us?" Cassadee asks, sounding petulant. "Can't you just use him?" She nudges Spencer's shin with her foot and looks disgruntled. Spencer sincerely hopes she's acting.

"You're bait," she says baldly, and Spencer winces. This was clearly piss-poor planning on someone's part.

"Bait for what?" Cassadee asks, of course she does.

Spencer has a pretty good idea what they're bait for, and he winces as their kidnapper confirms it. "There's a unicorn, and I need it, and you two are the bait."

Cass stares at her for a minute, then whips her head back around to stare at Spencer, and then back to Juliet. Spencer's a little afraid she's going to give herself whiplash or something. "Okay, what?" she asks, a sort of open question to the room. "Now you want me to believe there's a unicorn? Seriously, what the fuck."

"You're the perfect bait," the kidnapper continues as if Cassadee hadn't said anything. "It has to be a couple, and a couple who are virgins? There's no way it will be able to resist you."

Spencer has an almost overwhelming urge to bury his face in his hands. He knows knows _knows_ the smart thing to do would be to play along, because it's probably best for the world at large if the unicorn bait isn't going to work at all, even if it ends up with bad things happening to him and Cass when their resident wannabe super-villain figures out her brilliant plan has a couple flaws.

Clearly Spencer is not a fan of the smart thing to do. "Yeah, that's not actually going to work. About three quarters of that is wrong."

"Four quarters of that is wrong," Cassadee pipes in.

Spencer raises his eyebrows at her. "What?"

"I'm just saying, none of the assumptions inherent in the plan are actually valid, right? Unless you were saying that you-"

"No," Spencer interrupts. "So you're saying that you-"

"Well, yeah," Cassadee says. "You didn't actually think-"

"Shut up!" their kidnapper cuts in. "Tell _me_ what's going on, or you'll regret it."

"We're not a couple," Spencer says. "And I don't know why you thought that, but if that's actually an essential part of the plan, you're kind of boned."

"Plus we're not actually virgins," Cass adds. "And I don't know why _either_ of you thought that."

"We're talking about this later," Spencer mutters.

"You aren't my dad," Cass replies, full-volume.

"No, but your friend said," the woman says. "I heard him say you were saving yourself for your wedding night, that's why-"

Spencer groans. "I'm going to kill Ryan," he says, though Ryan might kill himself first if Spencer ever busts out the _hey, so you got me kidnapped, dude._ "He was joking, he knows I'm fighting with – never mind, but it was just a joke."

Their kidnapper is pressing her lips together very tightly and her eyes are sort of bugging out. Spencer thinks this is what people mean when they say someone is having an apoplectic fit.

"Sorry," Cass says, and it's insane but she actually sounds sincere.

"_Don't. Move,_" the woman says before turning and –- there is no other word for it -– stalking out.

"Wow, stereotypical villain much?" Cass says, staring after Juliet's retreating figure with a scornful look. Fuck, Spencer is so proud of her.

"I know, right?" Spencer says, and then adds, thoughtfully, "You know why I like vampires better? Because they don't _monologue me_," and it's so fucking stupid, but they both laugh themselves sick. Graveyard humour, Spencer figures. If only he wasn't so fucking familiar with it.

"So. That went well," Spencer sighs, as Cassadee turns serious again and asks "Seriously, unicorns too?" over top of him.

* * *  
_3.30pm_

As nice as it is to actually have an idea of why they've been kidnapped in the first place, Spencer is sort of rethinking the benefits of the 'get the bad guys talking so they can give away their plans' strategy. If only because rather than working out ways to use their current location to their advantage, Spencer has been finding out just how hard it is to get Cassadee to let something lie. He'd said 'we'll talk about this later' because, well, he wanted to fucking know; if he was maybe going to have to beat some dude up at a later date he'd like to know _who_, seriously, Cassadee was like sixteen, what was she thinking?, and also because he figured it lent a nice touch of confidence to his assertion that they were going to get out of there. He really hadn't been planning for later to be, like, now. And he was definitely only asking her now out of sheer self-defense, because before he'd even opened his mouth, Cassadee had yanked hard at another part of the knot and then said, "So, who're you fighting with? You never told me you were with anyone."

"That's not important," Spencer argues, and twists to knock his knee into her thigh. "Focus, okay? And who the hell have you been sleeping with?"

"That's none of your business," Cassadee says smartly, and looks smug.

"Teenagers," Juliet says disgustedly from the doorway, and Spencer actually jumps. He hadn't seen her coming, hadn't been paying attention. If he wasn't tied up, he'd be kicking himself for making that mistake twice in one week. Luckily, she hasn't seemed to notice they're doing anything -- both of them had frozen and dropped their wrists low as they could the second she'd spoken. "Given that that's all you can talk about right now, I'm sure you won't mind knowing there's been a little change of plans. I can use you for something else instead. Course, this might hurt a little bit more, but, well, what can you do."

Spencer goes tense. The chain is only around his waist; if he tries really hard now, he might be able to break out of the ropes if he has to. If he can get his hands free, he has to be able to do something.

"It's not going to be until a little bit later, though," she says, walking over to drop a couple of granola bars into their laps, and Spencer and Cassadee shift a little more, making sure the knots are angled subtly down, less obviously loosened, "so you should keep your energy up. You're going to need it."

She stalks off again -- Spencer is getting really sick of her penchant for dramatic exits -- and leaves them with the granola bars. Neither of them touches them -- they both want to be awake and aware if things are about to happen, because there is a definite feeling of events picking up speed now. Spencer is newly conscious of the increasing noise from the festival; it has to be getting late. Actually, talking more is probably not a bad idea. Spencer doesn't exactly want to start focusing on how little time they have left. The others have to be on their way to find them by now, he has to believe that.

"My friends are going to get us out of this," he says to her, for lack of anything more comforting. "They're good guys, they've done this kind of thing before, I swear. Like, obviously we should get the fuck out of dodge if we can, but cavalry should be on the way. I hope. Uh. ...you're not sleeping with Elliot, are you?" he adds suspiciously, because he didn't think they had that kind of vibe, but you never know. Brendon and Ryan took like four years to get their shit together, and apparently he was the only one who ever noticed them, so what does he know? Other people might be totally more stealth when they're not friends you've known since you were five.

And then Cassadee forestalls round eleven of 'no, really, who have you been hooking up with?' by ignoring his question completely, cocking her head to one side and asking directly.

"So, which one's your boyfriend, then?"

Spencer is still sort of flailing and hoping in the back of his mind it's not that obvious to everyone else he's into boys, because he still has to get through highschool and he doesn't think he's allowed to actually beat up homophobic jocks, when she goes on to ask, with way too much relish, "Is it the one with the ass?"

Spencer just stares at her until it dawns on him she means _Brendon_, and he chokes out "Oh my god, _no_," and then, "Okay, seriously, can we just figure out how to get out of here now and gossip about boys later?"

* * *  
_4.13pm_

 

It feels like they've been wandering around in the backstage area forever. Ryan feels like they must have looked everywhere already -- it's not that huge an area, realistically speaking -- if there was anyone hiding, they should have found them by now. Brian's checked in and said that no one's admitting to having seen Juliet for a couple of hours, but she'll have to turn up soon, and the second she does, he'll be in contact.

The guys from Empires have ditched their gear somewhere safe and are wandering the wooded area behind the festival grounds proper, doing a search of the area between there and the lake, just in case Savanti had taken Spencer further afield than they'd expected; they've got phones and promised to check in as well, but there's a lot of ground to cover, and Ryan's progressively less and less confident that they'll be able to find anything useful in time. Hopelessness is cramping into a ball in his throat, making his chest hurt, and he hates to admit it, but he's terrified they're not going to find Spencer. That he's going to be looking back on this as the worst day of his life, and he wants to scream or cry, but that's not going to do anyone any good, so why bother?

There's another huge cheer from the main festival stage, like another band has just come on, and Ryan jumps. He seriously misses the point where he'd been planning to come out here and _see bands_, almost as much as he does the way he'd been wanting to shake some sense into Spencer for getting so uptight over Bob's past and had instead just had fun hassling him for overreacting. It seems like that was a lot longer than a week ago.

And then the unicorn stops dead, its head coming up to look off towards the part of the grounds where the band trailers are parked and tents set up -- they'd gone through most of them already, Bob had snapped about an hour ago and had them start to cover all those bases as well, ruthlessly using the people he knew on various crews to get them in or to at least let them snoop around some. They hadn't found _anything_. Brian's lurking with them now as well -- as he puts it, he doesn't have anything better to do right now, and at least no one's going to question his all-access pass.

"What?" Ryan asks, with a sigh. If the unicorn's found someone having kinky public sex again, Ryan seriously doesn't want to know about it.

"Someone," it says with relish, "is doing some serious magic back that way. I think we're in business," and it leads the way at a trot.

* * *  
_4.13pm_

"Show time, kids," Juliet says, walking back into the pavilion. No one else has been anywhere near it; Spencer's seen a couple of people walk past, but he figures she's made some kind of preparation of the site to keep people out, magical or not. Maybe that's what she'd been doing last night.

Of course, Spencer's been preparing, too. They'd been damn close to free; one last stubborn knot and his right hand will be free, and as soon as that happens...

"Sorry," he whispers to Cassadee as Juliet steps carefully over the salt circle and turns to do something. He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising, which means it's probably magic; whatever she needs to do to close up the circle properly and trap them there for whatever she wants to do with them.

Seems like time's up. Lucky Spencer is actually kind of a super hero.

He takes a deep breath and pulls hard, twisting his wrist. Cassadee bites her lip but doesn't cry out; Juliet doesn't seem to have noticed, her back still to them. And now Spencer has a hand free. He and Cassadee work in frantic silence, pulling at the knots left on their other side, and just as they get those free as well, she turns, still speaking.

"No–!" she yells, stepping towards them.

Cassadee rolls to the side, out of the way, making damn sure to mess up the line of salt on the floor as she does so. Spencer gets his feet under him and manages to stand; his back's still to the column, and he hasn't exactly managed to work at the knots or chain binding him there, but he has his hands and legs free at least; she's not going to get near him to do much of anything, and certainly not with that necklace again. He feels a presence at his back, and it's Cassadee, yanking at the rope. That slithers free before Juliet's done more than advance just out of kicking range, cursing in a wild fury.

"Spence, I can't-" Cass says frantically, tugging at the chain, and Spencer remembers, right, even if she could do anything, it's a fucking magical lock.

"Get out of here," he hisses, not taking his eyes off Juliet. "Run out and get help; Brian'll get my guys, remember."

"You know it's mostly me you want," he says more loudly, trying to keep Juliet's attention on him. "I'm the slayer, she's just a girl."

Juliet hisses and steps closer again. That sword is in her hands again, and Spencer is really not liking where this is going.

"Hey!" Cassadee yells, and Spencer just barely stops himself from sagging back and closing his eyes in despair. Of course she's not going to just blithely go ahead and follow his instructions. "See how you like this," and she throws _something_ at Juliet; it's big and dark red, and her aim is dead on, it shatters against her wrist and she drops the sword reflexively.

"Cassadee," he yells again, "seriously, _go_, before she can-" and Juliet's backed off a bit, rubbing her wrist with her other hand, before holding both hands about a foot apart and starting to chant. Something really ugly starts to swirl between her hands, a dark mass studded with dull spots of light, and Cassadee ducks behind a box as Juliet spins to hurl it at her. The box crumples as if it's been hit with a car or something heavy, and Cass drops and crawls towards the door, taking cover behind as many other pieces of gear as she can while Juliet starts chanting again.

Spencer strains forward, he can almost- he doesn't think Cassadee's going to avoid the next shot, and if it can do that to a metal box, he hates to think what it'd do to fragile human skin and bone.

Juliet's brows draw together in concentration, and she sidesteps a little to get a better line on Cassadee. And comes just close enough to Spencer. He breathes out as much as he can and throws himself forward, scrapes a vital half an inch further forward, the chain biting into his hips, and manages to kick out. It's a glancing blow, and it only barely connects with Juliet's side, but it's enough to shove her sideways before she spins to face him, spitting fury, and mad enough to forget to keep her distance, because she storms towards him and he gets in one really good punch -- to her ribcage, because he does practice what he preaches, thank you very much -- and then she doubles over, falls to her knees coughing, and looses the threatening mass orbiting her hands at him at point-blank range.

Spencer feels it slam into him, like he's been kicked by something huge and really, really angry, and he has time to think "Ow" for all of a split-second before his head makes contact with the pillar behind him with a crack that echoes in his ears and maybe right down to his toes and if he had time, he'd think "Oh shit", but he's too busy losing consciousness.

* * *  
_4.27pm_

"Do you remember seeing that tent before?" Jon asks, gesturing with a jerk of his chin to a tent that Bob definitely doesn't remember being there earlier, and sure as hell hasn't searched yet.

"No," Bob says, feeling his heart rate kick up another notch into high gear, following Jon (limping as fast as he can) and Ryan and Brendon, who are following the unicorn that Bob really, really wishes he could see. Brian's a couple of steps behind him, not catching up fast enough for Bob's liking.

"Do we want to figure out-" Ryan starts to say, and then there's a loud bang from inside, and Bob pushes past him, trusting that if they can see the place now it's probably safe to walk in, and anyone inside has to be distracted by whatever's just happened. "Or we could just go in guns metaphorically blazing," he mutters, and follows.

Bob takes the scene inside in at a glance, guts turning to ice. A canvas-walled pavillion, filled with boxes, magical stuff strewn around the place, and in the middle, Spencer, slumped against a support column in the middle of a ritual circle, skin pale and his eyes closed. The sound tech Bob remembers from Thursday night is on her hands and knees in front of him, trying to get up, and Bob feels a sudden and unexpected rush of approval as the streaky-haired girl from the library -- Cassidy, Cassie, something like that, he remembers -- throws herself on top of Savanti and pulls her away from Spencer. He feels a little guilty, actually; none of them had stopped to realize she might be in just as much danger, too, but it sure looks like she's not working with Savanti, at least.

Savanti manages to throw her off, and makes a grab for a bottle out of one of the boxes near the edge of the circle. Bob figures this can't be good news, and then Jon's shoving past him, loping on four feet to skid to a stop just in front of Savanti and snatch the bottle out of her hands. He jerks slightly, and tosses his head so the bottle goes flying, smashing into the canvas wall and leaving an obvious scorch mark. Jon manages to untangle his feet and work his way under hers at the same time, tripping her before backing up fast, panting. Brendon runs to Cass-whatever, who'd rolled straight into one of the other boxes of magical gear, and both of them yelp and throw themselves behind it when Savanti manages to throw _something_ at them from her position on the floor.

It's more than time for Bob to get into this, and he slides closer to her, managing a nice clean sweeping kick to her side which makes her freeze up for a moment, and follows it up by letting himself fall forward, using his weight to pin her in place and yelling tersely over his shoulder for someone to bring something to tie her hands with. "On it," Brian calls, and vanishes into a pile of boxes, tossing equipment aside until he comes up with his hands full of electrical cords. They're not ideal, but they'll do.

"You need to cover her mouth," Cassadee says urgently, from the side of the tent, ignoring Brendon's concerned questions and batting away the hand he has on her forearm, prodding at a slow-bleeding shallow cut, "She keeps doing magic stuff," and Bob's casting about for something to gag her with when he feels a presence at his elbow, and hears the unicorn say "Allow me."

Juliet gets halfway through a phrase that Bob recognises as a particularly nasty curse -- she at least also needs her hands free to throw any more of those kinetic energy bomblets, so that's one thing he doesn't have to worry about -- when the unicorn does something, intoning a couple of words that are very definitely not English and that he's never heard before and there's a chiming peal of noise. Juliet _shrieks_ and a thin line of blood appears on her cheek.

"What did you do?" she cries, twisting futilely under Bob, trying to kick, and Brian and Ryan both drop flat to help restrain her.

She spits out a full incantation before Bob can get his hand back over her mouth, and he flinches back, but nothing happens. She stares too, silent for a moment, processing what has -- or, rather, hasn't -- happened, and it's like all the fight goes out of her. Bob doesn't back off too recklessly, but makes sure she's tied up securely before turning his attention to anything else.

"By the way," Brian says, standing and dusting himself off, looking down at her with absolute disgust. "You are so fucking fired."

"What the fuck is going on?" Spencer croaks from the centre of the room, and Bob feels a tension he hadn't even realised was there just _snap_. Spencer's moving slowly, his balance shaky, but he pulls a thick chain away from his waist and throws it away from himself as far as he can, revulsion on his face. "How come the lock's undone?" He looks over at Cass, sees Brendon helping her up, and then his head jerks around to see Bob and the rest of the guys. He looks immensely relieved, and, okay, Bob can't exactly blame him; he's pretty happy to see Spencer, too. Spencer's gaze lingers on Bob for just a few seconds longer, hungry and open, and then drops back to the floor again, noting with obvious satisfaction Savanti, tied up and seething.

"Oh, we got her?" Spencer asks rhetorically, and tries to get up. Ryan's at his side in a second -- kid can move fast when he wants to -- and catches his arm when Spencer wobbles alarmingly, helps him to sit on a box outside of the circle, and well away from Savanti. "Good work, guys," Spencer says weakly. "Can we go home now?"

Bob wants to run over to Spencer, elbow everyone else out of the way, but Ryan got to him first and Bob's willing to admit that best friends have some precedence. He forces himself to take a deep breath before heading that way, but Brian gets in his way -- deliberately, clearly -- before he can take more than a step. "We're out a sound tech," Brian starts.

Bob frowns, pretty sure he knows where this is going. "Tough luck for you," he says.

"They meant it, you know," Brian says, almost casually, and Bob sort of wants to punch him for sounding casual now. "You have a job touring with us any time you want or need it."

"I have a job here. I have a life here."

Brian snorts. "Not much of one. Teaching high school band? We both know that's not you. You don't belong here."

"I'm a Watcher, this is what I do, there's nowhere I could belong-" Bob cuts off his hissing when he bothers to look in Brian's eyes and realises he's being fucked with. "I hate you," he says, not bothering to keep his voice down any longer.

"Go check on your guy," Brian says, the closest thing to an apology Bob's ever going to get.

Spencer's still struggling a bit to sit up when Bob gets to him, Ryan propping him up. Bob shoots Ryan a look that he correctly interprets, letting Bob take his place beside Spencer. He goes over to Brendon and Jon, but not before giving Bob a look of his own. There's a chance Bob has underestimated Ryan; apparently he can actually be intimidating if his best friend is at risk.

"So I guess MCR are out a sound tech," Spencer says.

Bob blinks from the deja vu. "Guess so," he says. "How's your head?"

"Fine," Spencer says, which is almost certainly a lie. Bob knows all about slayers' special healing abilities, but they aren't immune to pain. "You should go with them."

Bob is raising his free hand to Spencer's hair, but drops it at that. "What?"

"They meant it when they said they wanted you back," Spencer says quietly. "You should go with them, they're important to you."

"More important than saving the world?"

"The Council can send me another Watcher." Bob's pretty sure Spencer is actively avoiding eye contact. "We'll be fine here. And you want to."

"Do you want me to go with them?" Spencer's sitting under his own power, Bob's hand no longer really needed for support, so Bob starts stroking it lightly up and down Spencer's back.

Spencer finally tilts his head to look at Bob. "I'm not going to ask you to stay."

"That's not what I asked," Bob says. He takes a deep breath, stalling for time, because he doesn't know how to say this. "Do you want me to go? Because I just told Brian I was staying."

"I don't want to stop you from doing anything. If that's what you want, you should go."

"Don't tell me what I should do," Bob says, trying not to sound annoyed. He _just_ got Spencer back. "I'm not something you have to save, or fix, or whatever. I made the choice to stop, and yeah, sometimes I regret it, but... maybe I would have gone back eventually, but then I met you."

Spencer blinks owlishly. "Because you're the active Watcher."

"No." Bob rubs at Spencer's back a little harder, because he's clearly not getting the point. "Quit trying to give me an out, I don't want it."

"This isn't all better and solved if you kiss me right now, is it?" Spencer asks, and Bob shakes his head.

"I think we have to keep working on it."

"Do you want to try anyway?" Spencer's voice is obviously shaky now, adrenaline starting to ebb.

Bob blinks. "Working on it?"

"No! Well, yes, that too, but I meant the kissing."

"Any time," Bob says, leaning in to brush his lips over Spencer's, and the kiss is needy enough that it takes both Ryan _and_ Brendon clearing their throats before they part, to see Brian standing a little apologetically behind them and saying, "Uh, the cops are- you guys should maybe get out of here now."

"We'll see you next time," Ryan says cheerfully, clearly well past any residual shyness around Brian as he walks past, his arm around Jon, who's human again, and trying to walk and button his jeans at the same time.

"Hopefully it will be _less exciting_," Bob growls, but smiles and claps Brian on the shoulder as he stands. "You can take care of the rest of this mess, right?"

"For sure," Brian says, "the cops are on the way, furnished with a report about some stolen property and someone acting suspiciously. And, oops, what's this?" He pulls a bag out of his pocket, walks over to the dagger lying on the ground in the middle of the circle and pours the contents over it.

"Is that blood?" Brendon asks, staring wide-eyed. "Where did you get blood?"

Brian shrugs. "My guys are prepared," he says, and makes a shooing motion. "Seriously, you guys need to get gone."

"Going, going," Bob says, and adds, ruefully, "Always good to see you, man."

"Any time," Brian echoes, and then looks at Spencer, who's still sitting on the ground. "You need a hand with your slayer there, Bryar?"

* * *  
_4.47pm_

"Nah, I got him," Bob says, and leans down as if he's about to pick Spencer up bodily. Spencer's eyes go wide and he scrambles backwards, almost falling off the drum case. Hah. The drum case. The same one he'd been freaking jammed inside this morning. His life is just fucking nuts.

Bob sighs. "Jeez, Spencer, just let me carry you. You're exhausted."

Spencer glares steadily at him. He has his dignity, damnit. "Pick me up and I'll end you."

"Such an idiot," Cassadee's voice drifts from in front of him, where she's leaning on Brendon and looking back, rolling her eyes. "Also, where's _my_ hug and make-out after being rescued from a fate worse than death, huh?" She looks speculatively at Brendon who squeaks, and tries to hide behind Ryan and Jon.

Cassadee sighs again.

"Spencer, let your boyfriend piggyback you out of here before we all wind up in jail, will you? Because frankly, you can explain that to my mother if it happens, and I can promise you that will be far worse than this. I swear I will forget entirely what he looks like and never tell another living soul that it happened, okay? Right, Mr Bryar?"

She is way, way, _way_ too perky for someone who just got kidnapped and drugged, let alone into a fight with a crazed magician.

Bob flinches at her words, and then swoops down to get his arms under Spencer's shoulders and knees before he can move again, lifting him easily. Spencer sighs and then turns his face into Bob's shoulder, letting himself relax for the first time in days. "Thanks," he mutters, for Bob's ears only, and Bob just tightens his arms around him, and says, "We'll be at the car in a minute, okay? And then we'll go home."

Right then, that's all the declaration Spencer needs.

* * *  
[end]

**Bonus Features!:**

[Mixtape by crowgirl13!](http://shihadchick.livejournal.com/1487920.html)

[Art by unluckykitty](http://shihadchick.livejournal.com/1488173.html)


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